Erskine Falls: a Crime Fiction Novel and Exegesis

CHRISTOPHER MALLON

Student ID No: 983478X

Dissertation submitted as fulfilment of the requirements for the Doctor of Philosophy (Humanities)

Swinburne University of Technology

March 2020

Abstract

This practice-led PhD consists of two elements – a crime fiction novel titled Erskine Falls, and an accompanying exegesis that critically situates the author’s creative practice and the production of the text. Drawing on the traditions of hardboiled detective fiction and noir crime fiction, the novel negotiates the spectrum between these two sub-genres and explores a world which questions the many modern articulations of masculinity.

Erskine Falls is a contemporaneously-set novel that follows a private eye who investigates the case of a missing girl who is from the affluent resort town of Lorne, Victoria, Australia. As the private eye moves through Lorne’s world of seaside wealth and tourism, he is simultaneously coming to terms with the post-industrial changes in his own home town of Geelong and dealing with a tumultuous relationship with his deceased business partner’s wife. His investigation eventually leads him into an underground world of criminality that belies the smiling touristic face of Lorne.

The exegesis reflexively explores key writerly choices and focuses on genre, masculinity, voice, and place. Building upon the hardboiled and noir crime fiction subgenres, the project seeks to examine how the traditional hardboiled voice and its masculinities are negotiated within a contemporary, post-industrial regional Australian space.

Using a practice-led methodology, the exegesis reflexively aims to situate the novel in a contemporary world through the subgenres of hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction. It evaluates the correlation between the novel and a range of scholarly works and critical approaches concerning masculinity by Robert Connell, James Messerschmidt, and Michael Kimmel.

Acknowledgements

Erskine Falls is a work of fiction. The noir world of Frank Carver PI and other characters has been realised and achieved by real people. Their time, patience and enthusiasm for this project has been unquestionable, and here, duly acknowledged.

I would like to express my sincere thanks to my supervisors Dr. Carolyn Beasley and Dr. Liam Burke for their time, expertise and interest in this project. Dr. Beasley and Dr. Burke’s knowledge and consideration of the sub-genre has been particularly helpful.

I wish to also to acknowledge the writers of the novels and scholarly works that preceded this venture. Their critical, literary and aesthetic lens has had an instrumental influence on my research and writing craft.

iii

Declaration

I certify that the thesis entitled ‘Erskine Falls: a Crime Fiction Novel and Exegesis’ submitted for the degree of PhD contains no material which has been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma; to the best of my knowledge contains no material previously written or published by another person except where due reference is made in the text; and is not based on joint research or publications.

Full name: Christopher Dean Mallon

Signed:

Date: 12. 11. 2018

Contents

Abstract ...... ii

Acknowledgements ...... iii

Declaration ...... iv

Contents ...... v

Erskine Falls ...... 0

Exegesis...... 264

Introduction ...... 265

Chapter 1: Genre ...... 271

Why a private eye? ...... 271

The morality of the protagonist ...... 273

Negotiating the Crime Fiction spectrum ...... 276

Finding the noir space ...... 280

The limitations of genre ...... 286

Conclusion ...... 288

Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework ...... 290

How is Carver’s masculinity conveyed? ...... 292

Masculinity and the hardboiled detective in a post-industrial landscape ...... 297

Guilt ...... 301

Relationships and sexuality ...... 304

The gaze ...... 306

Conclusion ...... 310

Chapter 3: Voice ...... 312

Establishing verisimilitude ...... 312

Creating the narrative voice ...... 313

Tough, terse and cynical: Carver’s hardboiled voice ...... 314

‘I felt darkness surround me’: Carver’s noir voice ...... 319

“I’m Carver”: a first-person narrative ...... 323

Introspection and existential isolation ...... 324

Conclusion ...... 330

Chapter 4: Place ...... 332

Carver as an observer of place ...... 335

Geelong ...... 336

Lorne ...... 342

Place as home ...... 347

Conclusion ...... 349

Conclusion ...... 351

References ...... 355

Bibliography ...... 371

Erskine Falls

By Christopher Mallon

Erskine Falls© by Christopher Mallon 2013-2018

N.B.: This work is fiction. Any persons or events depicted in this novel that appear true are purely coincidental.

For Patrick and Jo

CHAPTER 1

The multi-coloured lights of the beachside ferris wheel were supposed to burn each night until twelve. The next morning, I woke in a kaleidoscopic haze to find them still lit, their normal vibrant reds and green faded and sick in the daylight. I wondered when the carnival would end. When I would stop living this surreal dream?

I propped myself up and looked across the bed to find Lauren curled next to me. My head was still swirling from the intensity of last night as she rolled onto her back with a sigh. I sat up and fumbled for my tobacco on the bedside drawers. My hand knocked over something hard and a metallic thump hit the floor. I knew it had to be the photograph of Lauren and Bowman at Lorne beach where she was from. Lyle Bowman – her dead husband and my former colleague. It was a photo that I had done my best to ignore the night before.

The room was dark and still. Glimpses of sunlight filtered through the curtains onto the bed and the worn beige carpet. A cigarette hung from my lips as I groped around to find my watch, and squinted at the time on its face: 8.30am.

Shit!

Janice’s words burned in the back of my head: ‘Don’t forget Mrs Erskine will be in tomorrow morning about her missing daughter.’

I was gonna be late. I wanted to make a good impression for a potential client. I sure as hell needed one; things had been dry for a while. But Lauren was a good enough reason to be late.

I flung the watch back onto the bedside drawers with a clunk. Lauren stirred a little. A moment later she woke, gaped at me with a yawn and smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘How’d you sleep?’

Lauren smiled, ‘Hmm, after last night, pretty good!’

She poked me in the ribs, making me jerk a little. I smiled back at her.

‘What was that noise I heard?’ she said, as she stretched her arms and legs under the cover of grey cotton sheets. 3

‘I was trying to work out the time. You need a clock radio in here.’

‘Clock radio – what are you? A hundred? I’ve got my iPhone. Alright old man, so what time is it?’ she said and smiled.

‘It’s now twenty to nine.’

‘You’re going to be late for work,’ she said, propping herself up.

‘I know.’

‘She won’t ask questions, will she? She might call you. What are you gonna tell her? She doesn’t know about me, does she? I like Janice, she’s nice. Frank, if she ever found out about us...’

Lauren pinched the cigarette from between my lips and took a drag. ‘If she found out, she’d flip; you know that, Frank,’ she said, blowing smoke between her lips. ‘You might lose a secretary, and I’d lose whatever respect she had for me. Now, she doesn’t know about us, does she?’

‘Look, she doesn’t know about us, it’s okay!’

I left her there on the bed to finish my cigarette and took a shower. Her words echoed in my head: ‘she doesn’t know, does she?’ Suddenly, the bathroom appeared to get smaller – the walls, the ceiling moved in on me. What if Janice did know? She had adored Bowman and would hate that I’d taken up with Lauren. But, what would she do – leave? She kept me organised, paid up, and tried her best to shame me during office hours, but what I did was no reason for her to leave. If Janice wasn’t good at her job and an old friend, perhaps it wouldn’t matter. I felt sorry for Janice. I didn’t have a great deal of work for her, and she seemed dedicated to holding the fort when it wasn’t hers to hold. I felt like I owed her somehow for sticking around despite her grief at Bowman’s death. Maybe she needed the continuity of the job to keep her head together and to get through her mourning? If I was honest, I guess we were kind of propping each other up as we tried to deal with Bowman’s murder. I couldn’t let her end up on the dole like other poor bastards in this town, any more than she could let me go down with a fistful of unpaid bills and a bottle of Southern Comfort.

I had another reason for wanting to get out of here. I didn’t like being at Lauren’s apartment. It felt like Lyle Bowman had never fucking left – clothes still 4 hanging in the walk-in robe, his cologne on the vanity. I could smell him a mile off. My heart raced. My breathing became faster; I could feel my blood pressure climb. Jesus! It’s like he’d walk in, realise I’d been banging his wife, then pull a gun from his coat and end us both.

I gripped the taps and turned down the heat. Leaning against the wall, I let the lukewarm water wash away the misery and hurt of Bowman’s death that gripped me like a wrench, turning my stomach in knots. Lauren then joined me and made the hurt go away.

I left her in the shower, found the fan switch, and then wiped the mirror. The reflection revealed a man of 5’10’, solid build, brownish hair, grey-blue eyes and light complexion, tinged with the creeping age of nearing fifty. The Geelong Cats emblem I’d had tattooed on my left arm after they’d won the grand final appeared uneven on my steam-softened skin, like the trashy kids’ stick-ons in chewing gum wrappers. New lines had appeared near my eyes: stress lines from screwing my dead partner’s wife. The reflection wasn’t nice.

A fossick through the bathroom’s cabinet’s top drawer revealed a packet of Bowman’s unopened blades and a can of shaving cream. I wanted to make a good impression for the client, and I was running out of time. I stared down at the blades. I had never used a dead man’s razor before and I wasn’t about to start now. If I had a client to meet, it was too bad; they’d have to accept the stubble as part of the deal. I left the bathroom dry, but for some reason everywhere felt wet.

I had twenty minutes. My clothes were crumpled and scattered on the bedroom floor. I got dressed into yesterday’s dark-grey pants, white shirt and loose black tie, and grabbed my watch, tobacco and lighter from the bedside drawer. I noticed the photo-frame was back on the bedside drawer, and turned right way around, revealing the picture of Lauren and Bowman at the beach. Lyle Bowman was staring straight at me. My hand slid into the pocket and started flicking the lighter.

The off-white tiled kitchen floor felt cold under my feet as I scoured the white cupboards and drawers for coffee to get my brain in gear. Lauren’s bag was on the counter. The zip opened easily – nothing, just lipstick, tissues, mirror, tampons, her

Geelong Hospital name tag and mobile. Then I found something else – a half-empty pack of Prozac, and a vial of Xanax. What the hell was this?

Prozac?

Xanax?

I closed the bag and left it on the counter, and then turned back toward the bedroom.

‘You got any coffee?’ I called, hoping she’d hear.

‘Yeah, in the fridge,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what’s there, just help yourself to whatever.’

I opened the fridge door – a tin of ground coffee, a half-empty bottle of Absolut and a grapefruit. Who the fuck eats grapefruit?

I made coffee. The aroma lingered as I peeled back the heavy grey-coloured drapes, revealing white French doors leading to a balcony that held a small wooden table and chairs. I downed my coffee and poured Lauren a cup, and then opened the doors for a cool breeze to waft into the lounge room.

The view from the second-storey balcony looked over the Yarra Street and The Esplanade intersection, and took in the expanse of Corio Bay. I eyeballed the streetscape below, past the Royal Geelong Yacht Club along to Eastern Beach, the carnival and its ferris wheel. The sun melted away the cloud as the city’s day-trippers and out-of-towners looking for a one-trick pony jostled with locals for car parks in a bid to grab the best seats at one of the numerous cafes planted along the street. A woman’s voice crashed the hum, swearing like a sailor over who should give-way. The shit-stink lasted about a minute before I sat down. Nobody’d noticed me watching them. If they had, I didn’t care.

Lauren walked out, dressed in a thick, white robe. She looked like a 40s matinee idol, but at this time of day, more fresh-faced than high-end glamour. A horn blasted from the street. I looked down to the pavement below and caught my breath as a woman, who was a dead ringer for Janice, approached and then passed below us. I shook my head to break my focus. There was no way it would be Janice. She lived on the other side of town, and would have no reason to be around here. The woman 6 glanced upwards and our eyes met for a second. A sort of surge of relief hit me and rolled back out again, as I realised it wasn’t her. I faked a benign smile and looked away. But the feeling of strangeness lingered, that sense that Janice would know I’d been here.

‘I need to get going,’ I said.

‘Wait, I want to sit in the sun,’ said Lauren.

I peered down to the street again. Still no one I recognised. ‘Alright, but I can’t stay much longer.’

Lauren smiled and shook her head. She sat. I handed her a cup of coffee. She lifted it to her lips, blowing gently over the hot liquid before taking a sip.

‘Coffee’s good, and still hot,’ she said. ‘Do you have to leave so soon?’

‘Yeah, I got a potential client, and time’s ticking.’

She gazed toward the streets below.

‘Why aren’t you dressed?’ I said. ‘What time’s your shift?’

‘Not ‘til this afternoon,’ she said casually. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’ll go back to bed for a little while.’

She pulled a packet of half-empty cigarettes from the pocket of her robes and lit a smoke. ‘I like it when you’re here,’ she said, blowing smoke from her mouth. ‘I like it a lot.’

‘That’s good. I like it too.’ I lied. I hated it, but after Lyle’s death I got the sense she needed me more than ever. Still, I didn’t want to be there, but she wouldn’t come to my place – didn’t think it was good enough, or clean enough. Who knew? Maybe it was because it didn’t have a view. I wondered how much it would cost to move up to this end of town. How much it would cost to keep her, to keep us?

I placed my hand on her thigh, ‘Tell me, what did you pay for this place again – it’s incredible, a one-bedroom apartment overlooking the bay, Eastern Beach.’

‘I don’t know, Lyle and I bought off the plan so I suppose it was a bit cheaper doing it that way,’ she said, and crossed her legs.

‘I suppose if one day you have kids, you’d have to sell the joint. That’d be a shame, especially with this view.’

Lauren started crying. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, all with one hand as the cigarette smouldered in the other. ‘You know, Frank, you can be an arsehole sometimes,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you really know me at all.’

‘What?’

Perhaps she was right – I didn’t know her as well as I thought. Some fucking detective!

I turned and peered up Yarra Street to the glass bridge connecting the massive Westfield shopping centre. The place was changing fast and I wondered if I still recognised it. The northern end of the city, towards the bay, old wool stores and Victorian and Federation buildings were being renovated, while new apartment blocks of glass and steel twisted into weird postmodern shapes were being put up at a rate of knots. Big money poured into town making it more like a Melbourne beach suburb. The city’s old bluestone laneways and sandstone terraces were getting lost in the glitz.

The once busy Cunningham pier now had a large, up-market restaurant built on the end. The old wooden Yarra Street pier had disappeared years ago. I didn’t remember what it was like. I hated that.

It wasn’t that long ago, maybe thirty years, when ships lined-up in dock, their crews inhabiting the nearby haunts like the Sailor’s Rest or the Golden Age, while the stench of heavy industry wafted across the bay from Corio and Norlane.

Back then, the city chugged along on manufacturing, now it just chinked on coffee cups. The pier now had queues of tourists – Melbourne day-trippers or locals with cash to burn. Some of the sandstone buildings like the old Customs House on Brougham Street remained, but like almost every other building, it had become a cafe – serving overpriced drinks to undervalued customers.

Lauren appeared distant. Her face was expressionless; her soft, blue eyes appeared blank as she stared out into the nothing of air. Her features were similar to

8 that of the missing girl – Cassandra Erskine – whose face had been in the papers, on the TV, and whose mother I was soon to meet.

The noise of traffic and people below didn’t have any impact on where Lauren’s mind was. Her dirty-blonde shoulder-length hair swished a little in the breeze, before she combed it from away her face. She was no natural blonde that’s for sure, but I liked her hair this colour. Once, she dyed it red. She fucking burnt me alive that night.

‘You okay, now?’ I said, extending my hand toward her.

‘Yeah, just tired I guess,’ she said, as she took a slow sip from her cup. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not you.’

I rose to go back inside, but she reached out to stroke my leg.

She smiled, ‘It’s not you, okay?’

‘Okay. So, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know, just...’ she said, and then stared out to nothing.

Her face had brightened, but uneasiness remained in her eyes.

‘I see. So, you’re all right?’

She glanced past me. ‘I guess I just feel a little down, that’s all. Was your ex like me, Frankie?’

‘No. She was older for a start – older than me by a couple of years. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ She stubbed out the neglected cigarette that had been slowly burning between her fingers. ‘How long have we been doing this?’

‘This?’

‘You know, fucking each other.’

I leaned on the door, with one foot on the tiled balcony and the other in the lounge room – half-way from escape, half way in purgatory. You know, fucking each other. Christ! That’s harsh. Why not just smash the cup and shove it in my fucking throat! I didn’t get it.

‘I don’t know, a little while I guess,’ I said, rubbing my ear impatiently in an effort to keep the annoyance off my face. ‘Why? Do you want to call it quits? I mean, there’s plenty of younger guys out there who earn a helluva a lot more than I do.’

She stood, opened her robe and pressed herself against me. She was oblivious to anyone who might see her from the street. I grabbed her arms, not knowing what she’d say or do next.

‘No, I want you, old man,’ she said. ‘I, I shouldn’t have said that. I guess, I don’t know.’

I released her arms, closed her robes, stepped into the lounge room and breathed out a long sigh. Great, the run around.

She’d closed the French doors and walked in.

I slid on my jacket, and searched for my keys, change and wallet. ‘You’re not ditching me, are you?’ I said, taking a step toward her. I felt lost, like a kid searching for his mother in a department store. ‘I mean, with Lyle, my work and all, I’d understand if you’d want to call it quits or cool off for a while. It’s up to you.’

She stepped toward me and slipped off her robe. ‘No! No, don’t even go there; I need you. I need you so much. I want you,’ she said.

‘Okay,’ I said with a slow smile. ‘I really gotta go – new client lined up – mother of that missing girl from Lorne – you know the one, she was in the papers a few weeks back.’

‘Oh yeah! That poor girl, I wonder what happened?’ Her face fell ashen in the shadow. A chill prickled my skin. I didn’t like it.

‘You’re from Lorne. Did you know her or her family?’

‘I didn’t know her, and knew the family only vaguely. My parent’s friends knew them; they mix in those sorts of circles.’

‘What circles are they?’

‘Oh, just mid-week ladies tennis, sailing, you know that sort of thing.’

‘Huh, no,’ I smiled.

Sunlight streamed through the Venetian blinds of the lounge room window onto her body. Her face remained in shadow. Then she snatched her robe from the floor, rummaged for the crumpled cigarette packet, fished out a smoke and burnt the end.

A shiver ran through me. I wanted her, but I couldn’t hang around any longer. I had to go.

My feet edged me toward the front door. Then I turned to see her, but she wasn’t there. By habit, I peered through the spy-hole – no one was there, just her neighbour’s front door and the cold steel rail that led to the basement car park. Suddenly I felt her behind me. She stepped up to me and stroked my cheek with her hand, then tenderly kissed my lips. She was dressed.

‘I thought I’d go out for a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring work, and tell them I won’t be coming in today.’

I slid away from her towards the stairs, ‘Okay.’

Her door closed behind me, echoing in the concrete stairwell, as I walked down the steps toward the underground car park. A CCTV camera hung above me and followed my direction. My head kept telling me something was going on; something wasn’t right with her, with us.

The distant look in her eyes said more about her than she was telling me. I felt darkness surround me as I peered for my car among the several parked. Another camera was fixed to the concrete ceiling. It kept an eye on the cars and whoever entered the car park, including me – surveying my every move. The incessant buzz and flicker of a faulty fluorescent tube and the reek stale exhaust fumes attacked my senses, itching through my nervous system until I reached the car. The Valiant sat under metallic shafts that dully reflected the flicking light and pushed heat and cooling throughout the apartment block.

I opened the door and just sat there, gazing at the dull, cold, grey concrete wall in front of me. My hands appeared to age before my eyes.

What the fuck is going on with her?

Prozac? 11

Xanax?

Christ! When did that start? Why didn’t she tell me she was having problems?

Keys hung from the ignition in silence as I peered into the rear-view mirror and noticed a fleck of grey hair. The silence became overbearing as the knobs and gauges on the dashboard bled into each other. My right hand slammed into the door, then again, and again.

I felt suffocated.

I glanced past the mirror – the car behind appeared closer, the fluorescent tube flickered faster. I loosened my tie and reached into my jacket pocket for my tobacco. The window slid slowly down as I breathed out a lung-full of pain. She had me like a junkie.

CHAPTER 2

The drive to the office felt slow. The traffic didn’t help. Lauren’s image and words snarled in my head like a dog over a bone. I flicked a glance to a letter on the passenger seat. It was from my real estate agent. I’d received it a few weeks ago. The landlord wanted to do up my apartment building, gentrify it apparently, according to the agent. The agent said the prick’s given me the choice – to stay and pay higher rent – probably to just install a spy-hole and an intercom, or move out. He’d given me 28 days to make up my mind. I had less than two weeks left.

I turned up the radio. The voices on Radio National provided a distraction from the letter and the conversations with Lauren inside my head.

The wipers drew the wet across the windscreen. The darkening grey-purple sky was reflected in the car. I’d wanted to wave her goodbye from the car as I drove away from her apartment complex, with her image in the rear-view mirror stuck in my head ’til I reached the office – the blank expression, the morbid smile and the way she’d languidly raised her hand. But that didn’t happen. I didn’t know what she really wanted. I just wanted her, but I wondered if the burden was becoming too great.

The car took me up along Yarra, then right into Malop Street, through the congestion of traffic and shoppers looking for an overheated bargain, before making a sharp left into Moorabool. Lined with tall palms, the street looked like a poor relative from Surfers Paradise. The council’s idea to beautify the place reeked of hypocrisy – like bullshit in a hot wind. The top of the trees swayed slightly in the breeze, while on the street – among the cigarette butts, chewed-up gum and syringes – shit would go down – violence in the day, sex attacks at night, all under the dim city’s lights.

The car shuddered to a stop against the kerb. I got out and wedged a couple of dollars in the meter. Light streamed through glass panels as I climbed the stone stairs to my small office on the first floor of the deco T&G building. Words frosted on the glass panel of the office door read – F. Carver ~ Civil and Criminal Investigations.

I made my way in.

Janice stood next to her desk, clasping the phone in one hand and doodling something on a pad with the other. She gave me slight smile and directed me into my

13 office. Her eyes were brown and warm. She wore what almost seemed to be like a uniform for her – white blouse, dark grey pants and black pumps. Her hair framed her roundish, slim face. This week she was a dark brunette; it suited her. She wore the same perfume day-in, day-out – something by Calvin Klein.

I gave her a wink.

She moved the receiver to the side of her face and covered the speaker with her left hand. ‘There’s a message for you on your desk, along with today’s paper,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve read it already and did the crossword.’

‘Great, thanks,’ I moaned. That client hadn’t yet arrived. Maybe Janice didn’t care why I was late.

Janice sat in her chair, as I gestured to her about her call. She ignored me.

My feet led me to my office door and I turned the handle. Then Janice’s voice hit the back of my head like a mallet, ‘Tell me again, Frankie, why you’re divorced?’

Maybe she’d suspected something after all.

I closed the door behind me.

The desk felt as comfortable as an old friend, as I sat in my chair and rolled a cigarette. I discovered the message Janice had left. It read, ‘Mrs Erskine called – she said she’s going to be late, now 9.30. She’s very upset’.

The Erskine’s missing daughter. Another missing person case the cops tried hard to solve. The family from Lorne – the coastal town with its multi-million dollar views and upmarket cafes and boutiques – had been in the papers, splashed all over the news a month or so back, with search parties of police and volunteers scouring the dense scrub and the local beaches for clues. But with no new leads the buzz had begun to die off.

Janice walked in.

‘Ah, you’ve got my note,’ she said.

‘Yeah, just read it. When did she call?’

‘Hmm, not long before you arrived. She got all choked-up telling me about how she wanted her daughter found; she was quite upset.’

‘I’m sure she was. Hey, do me a favour,’ I said, as I pushed myself out of my chair.

‘That depends, Frankie.’

‘Now, don’t be like that.’

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘All right, what? What would you like me to do?’ she inquired sarcastically.

‘Do a search and print everything there is on the Erskine family, will you. I would’ve done it myself but I’ve been busy.’

She hovered next to the desk. ‘Busy. Huh! I know your definition of busy, and it usually has nothing to do with work,’ she said with coy smile. ‘Anything else?’

A smile smeared my face, ‘Not at the moment, dear.’

Janice sauntered back to her desk. I lifted the lid of my laptop and scanned a spreadsheet for missing persons. A file of a previous case drew me in – a kid from Highton, who’d taken off ’cause his old man, a solicitor, had hit the bottle, and then the kid. The boy’s mother was a blabbering mess. She’d dived for buried answers in a bottle of gin but found only the bottom. One Sunday – Mother’s Day – she’d gone around to the old man’s house to pick up the kid, but discovered he’d already skipped town. A scribbled note had been left on the kitchen table saying he couldn’t stay any more.

The case wasn’t solved.

The kid was still missing. I still felt bad about it.

About ten minutes later, Janice returned with a manila folder and placed it on my desk. ‘I’ve found as much as I could about the Erskine’s. Here’s the copies I’ve made,’ she said, and handed them to me.

‘Thanks.’

Janice slid back towards the door. ‘The lady said she hadn’t heard from the police in a while; I guess she might be starting to think the worst,’ she said.

I sat back in my chair, turned toward the window and faced the clogged streets below. The rain had stopped. But who knew when it’d start again?

Janice moved a little closer to the door. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on, do you want coffee?’ she said.

‘Maybe later.’

‘So, do you think you’ll take the case?’

I glanced at her, and twirled the rolled cigarette between my fingers. ‘I don’t know. The girl sounds like a run-away. She’ll probably be back soon enough.’

Janice then left and made a phone call – chasing up an overdue fee. We weren’t running a fucking charity.

The office had a bygone pleasantness about it – an old Turkish rug lay on the wooden floor, with standing lamps and wooden desks; it was small, unpretentious – cosy even, with a musty scent in the air.

About a year ago, I would’ve opened the door and found Bowman perched on the corner of Janice’s desk. He’d raise his hand, give a minor salute and smile. His name was below mine on the office door. Lauren had been his wife for a couple of years but was looking for an out – I couldn’t get a straight answer from her as to why.

He was younger than me and worked the way he dressed, like a fucking cowboy – boots, jeans, open neck shirt and even a hat. If it’d been a Stetson, I would’ve killed the prick myself. He’d worked as an investigator for a government agency before joining me. He’d been kicking around on a case that I’d handballed him – a local boy who’d left the humdrum for Melbourne’s brighter lights.

I gave him the case so he’d be away, allowing me to see Lauren. We’d been seeing each other for a few months, a quick rendezvous or the occasional overnight stay at my place.

We’d met sometime before Bowman went to the other side of Melbourne looking for this kid. One night we found each other outside Lamby’s Bar & Bistro.

The place had an old charm with its bluestone stressed wood interior. A mirror stretched the length of the bar, forcing any drinker to face their pain.

I’d been tailing some guy whose old lady thought he’d been playing house with her sister ’til he led me back to his apartment complex in Belmont where he remained. I’d waited a couple of hours, and drove back into town and looked for a belt. Lauren had finished her shift at the hospital, and eyed me walking up to the bar. We talked, but that was it. I saw her again a month or so later over a drink, and then it went on from there – a mutual passion for sex and liquor. Little did I know that her preferred vice was prescription drugs.

A few days into the case, Bowman had his car back from the mechanic and was ready to hit the highway for Melbourne to look for the kid. I hadn’t seen Lauren for a week or so. But after Bowman had left, she went cold. She said she’d already organised to see her sister out of town. There were no fucking fireworks that weekend, just fizz.

The poor kid had been promised a job and a life. But, when he got there, it all fell through. Broke, he found himself mixed-up in a gang and drugs. When Bowman eventually got a good lead, he tracked him down to some shithole in the arse-end of Ringwood. He confronted him. The kid was juiced up on Meth, spinning like a top. He became hysterical. In a split-second Bowman was dead in a gutter with a blade in his chest.

Detective Sergeant Roy Lane, a local cop I like to annoy, told me what’d happened. But according to the papers, a couple of witnesses who weren’t off their dial reckoned that somebody else had knifed him. I didn’t see the Coroner’s report.

Lauren was devastated. I guess it still haunts her, and somehow me.

The drug-fucked kid was picked up about an hour later spitting out words about someone else. Then he was found dead a couple of days later, the result of some drug deal gone wrong in some dive motel in Croydon, a low-rent suburb with a dull view.

Bowman, the kid, they didn’t stand a chance.

I rolled a cigarette and thought about what I’d say to Mrs Erskine, to console her in some way. I checked my watch: ten minutes ’til Mrs Erskine was due to arrive. I

17 shoved the paper to one side and flipped open the manila folder and flicked through the print-outs about the missing Erskine girl. Most were news stories from the local rags – the Geelong Advertiser and the Geelong Independent – they read that the girl was last seen at the local beach. It looked like another runaway, but I didn’t want to be faced with another unsolved case like the kid from Highton.

It wasn’t good for anyone.

The most recent article was dated February 15, now four weeks ago. Pictures were plastered across the page. The story read that the girl had been missing for about a week, but the papers had been known to get their facts wrong. During December and January, the town was running on electricity with a population swell that tripled its size with tourists, families and out-of-towners looking for a sea breeze buzz. Sometime last month, the place held its annual Pier to Pub swim, attracting around four thousand swimmers and their towel warmers, and probably a cache of party drugs to boot. And, a few weeks before that was the Falls music festival at New Year’s Eve. A month before that was ‘schoolies’ – hundreds of school leavers getting wasted before Christmas. The coastal town would’ve been awash with ecstasy, cocaine, ice and whatever else the tide brought in. The cops’ chances of finding anyone under that wave was slim.

The report stated that the family said the girl, Cassandra, had left without notice. It wouldn’t have surprised me if the girl had met a bunch of party freaks and had an extended lost weekend. It ended stating that police were still investigating.

My hand combed through my hair. It’d now been almost six weeks since she was missing, so why was the mother looking for a PI when the cops were apparently still on it?

The file noted the old man, Lawrence Erskine, owned a real estate firm in Lorne, and by the look of it, was doing well for himself. It also read that the family had been in the area for yonks. There were plenty of pictures of him and his wife with the local who’s-who at one of Lorne’s more upmarket restaurants. I didn’t know any of those people.

I left my desk and walked toward Janice, twirling the rolled cigarette between my fingers.

She noticed.

‘You heading outside for a cigarette?’ she said.

‘Yeah, wanna join me?’

Janice grabbed her bag, ‘Hold on a sec,’ she said, as she fished out a pack and followed me out the door.

How she smoked menthols cigarettes was anyone’s guess – they were like sucking on a tube of toothpaste wrapped in cardboard.

‘A call came through while you were out,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘It was from Roy Lane, Geelong CIB.’

‘Yeah, what’d he want?’

‘He just said it was about a particular matter. He asked if you were in the office.’

‘What’d you say?’

‘I told him I didn’t know where you were.’

‘That sounds fine.’

The two of us hung outside the building’s foyer. The weather had improved, with the sun out again and a light, warm breeze. We chatted, trying not to suck in the diesel fumes of buses that lined the street. Behind the bus stops, mothers and their hungry kids jostled for seats, with pensioners, and young punks – wide-eyed on who knows what. We looked at each other as we watched shoppers, office workers, and students go about their lives along the dirty-red paved footpath. A CCTV camera, fixed to the wall a little up the street, watched us notice as a woman walked past us, through the doors and up the stairs. She lightly gripped the banister rail as she climbed the stone steps. It was Mrs Erskine.

Janice stood tall against the grime and pollution of the city. Her right hand languidly raised her cigarette to her lips. We’d worked together at an insurance agency

19 in town for a few years before I asked her to join me. Business had been doing well. I needed a secretary, and she was the only one I knew worth her salt.

Janice turned to me, ‘That was her, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Mrs Erskine?’

‘Uh-huh.’

My cigarette fell from between my fingers and hit the cracked footpath, before I killed it under the heel of my shoe. ‘Here we go,’ I said.

CHAPTER 3

I rummaged around in the first-floor kitchenette, which was shared by the other couple of offices on the floor, thinking how I’d approach this potential case as I made a poor excuse for a bad cup of coffee. The kitchenette hadn’t been renovated in years – the black-check linoleum had turned dark grey and the white enamel cupboards were faded yellow. The refrigerator was empty, except for a bunch of grapes and a carton of milk. Tins of coffee, tea, and sugar sat on the bench. Luckily the milk was still okay, but the coffee – some instant shit – was bad enough to kill a rat. As deadly as it was, it was better than nothing.

The office door was open. Janice was chatting with Mrs Erskine. I neared with my cup of death. She sounded formal, well spoken, like old money. She also seemed a little hesitant with her words, like she’d started to run out of options from a vocabulary drained by pain. I sipped and swallowed hard, before I slid back into the kitchen and gave the dark liquid another stir. It didn’t help.

A few minutes later, I heard Janice talking with her in reception. They then appeared at my office door.

‘Frank, this is Mrs Erskine,’ Janice smiled, and gestured toward me.

‘Mrs Erskine this is Frank Carver, the private investigator.’

I moved around my desk and gently shook her hand, ‘How do you do. I’m so sorry to hear about your daughter; it must be quite an ordeal.’

‘Thank you, Mr Carver,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is a terrible ordeal for all of us; you have no idea. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I imagine you must be busy with other things.’

Janice and I eyeballed each other.

‘No, all good,’ I said with a sympathetic smile.

Mrs Erskine’s body moved a little as she gestured towards the window. ‘I tried the other half-dozen or so of your sort in the Yellow Pages, but I was just met with answering machines, so then I called you,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ I muttered, and then sat back in my chair and felt the smile slide off my face.

The weather had turned again as I glanced out the window – dark grey and purple clouds were dumping rain, slashing the sills with fine, swept lines.

Janice hovered like a butterfly over a sun-drenched flower. ‘Mrs Erskine can we get you something to drink, a cup of tea or coffee perhaps?’ she said.

I sat forward. ‘Don’t bother with the coffee here – it’s not worth your trouble, Mrs Erskine. Actually, I think Janice was just heading out to get some fresh beans.’

Janice started to walk back to her desk, ‘Yes, apparently so,’ she said dryly, and left.

A wry smile creased my face as I gestured to the woman, ‘Please take a seat, Mrs Erskine.’

Mrs Erskine took off her black coat and laid it on her lap, placed her handbag on the floor, and then sat in front of my desk. She dressed well for the part.

‘I read your story in the newspapers, and when it was on the TV,’ I said. ‘The press coverage may help; it gets people’s attention, you know, in case someone sees something. I need to ask you some questions, if that’s all right?’

‘Like the police?’ she said.

‘That’s right, like the police. The police want to help find your daughter, but you’ve got to understand something, they’ve got other things on the go at the same time as trying to find her. I’m not a cop so when I start, that’s all I’ll do – day, night – it makes no difference to me. I work one case at a time, that’s it. So, would you like me to help find her?’

Tears ran down her cheeks, ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said, taking a handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiping her eyes and nose.

‘Good. I’ll do whatever I can.’

‘I’m sure. My beautiful girl,’ she wept.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ I gave her a few moments to compose herself, and then gently asked: ‘Can you tell me if this has happened before?’

Mrs Erskine sat back, finished wiping her eyes and nose, and then gazed at the ceiling. ‘Yes, she has been absent before, a couple of times in fact,’ she said. ‘The first when she was about fifteen, a couple of years ago, when her father and I were… having difficulties.’

‘You’re no longer together?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’

‘The police found her a day later camped up at the Falls. The second time was earlier last year.’

‘The Falls?

‘Yes, Erskine Falls. It was named after Lawrence’s forebears.’

‘I see. And, were they uniform police or plain clothes that found her?’

‘They were uniform police – local by memory,’ she said.

Local uniforms meant little, it’s when the plain clothes mob – like the homicide fellas from Melbourne - turn up at your door, that you know serious shit is on the cards.

‘Okay, so what was that about?’

‘Cassandra told me something about her brother. She was upset about something he had done, but didn’t want to talk about it. When I spoke with him – Simon, that’s my son – about the matter, he said he had just put a photo of her on the internet; he wanted to get back at her for something, a prank.

‘What type of photo was it?’ I asked. ‘Was she in the nude or doing something explicit?

Mrs Erskine waved her hand dismissively. ‘No. Like I said, it was just a prank. Anyway, the last time this happened she had stayed with Simon’s friend, Sophie–’

‘Sophie – is his girlfriend?’ 23

‘Hmm, I’m not sure, Mr Carver, just friends perhaps.’

‘Alright, go on.’

‘Yes, well it upset me that she had done that, and really annoyed me that Sophie hadn’t said anything. So, Mr Carver, I wouldn’t be here if I thought my daughter was playing silly little games.’

‘Do you think maybe Simon had anything to do with this again?’

She paused a moment as her eyes veered towards the window. ‘No, I asked him if he had anything to do with this all,’ she said. ‘He told me, quite truthfully, no. I believe him as he was quite upset.’

I sat back in my chair, a little taken aback with her attitude.

‘Alright, now could you remind me how long she’s been missing?’

‘She’s been gone so long now,’ she said, glancing past me. ‘It’s been weeks. I’ve marked every day on the calendar. I had called several of her friends, the university, and no one had seen her. When I called the police, they told me to call back after twelve hours. So, when we called back and reported Cassandra missing, they said they couldn’t deem her missing until she’d been gone forty-eight hours–’

‘Sorry, we? Who’s we? You said when we called back?’

‘Err, yes that would have been Lawrence, Lawrence Erskine – my ex-husband. He had called the police as well.’

‘Tell me, Mrs Erskine, where was the last time you saw Cassandra?’

‘It was at the café we go to every Saturday morning… Moons.’

‘I see. And, is this Moons café, is that in Lorne?’

‘Yes, it’s along Mountjoy Parade, on the foreshore. Why?’

‘Well the papers say that Cassandra was last seen at the beach.’

‘Oh, that cannot be correct.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, Cassandra doesn’t like the beach.’ 24

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know really; she’s never liked it. It might be to do with the sand.’

Her face fell into her hands. ‘God, it’s all too confusing,’ she said. ‘We contacted friends, relatives, all her friends but no one knew anything. The police had search parties looking for her; we all looked for her.’

I leaned forward. ‘Now, Mrs Erskine, I’m gonna need a list of her friends and their numbers.’

‘Yes, that’s no problem. I gave them to the police too.’

‘Okay, now how old is Cassandra?’

‘Cassandra is seventeen; we had a birthday party for her last May at her father’s house. After her father and I divorced, Cassandra and Simon came to live with me and then decided to reside with their father and his new wife. It’s a much larger house than mine.’

Tears welled in her eyes with the thought of her daughter no longer living there. A dusty box of tissues was still on Bowman’s desk. I got up and offered the box to her.

‘It’s okay, take your time,’ I said. ‘I’ll have Janice get you some water.’ I opened the door and asked Janice to grab a glass of water, then closed it again.

‘Thank you,’ she said, wiping her eyes, dabbing her nose. ‘Here is a list of her friends; I wrote them down for you.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be contacting them later.’ There didn’t seem to be as many friends as she’d made out, around five at the most.

‘You know, I recently contacted the police again, though not the main one we had been speaking with, Inspector Muir – he was quite amiable. Anyway, I must have got hold of this policeman on a bad day because he was rather abrupt and–’

‘Yeah, you get that with them. Go on.’

‘Yes, well the policeman said... “Look madam, do you know how many reports we get of people who go missing? She’ll be back soon enough, now if you don’t

25 mind”... I was completely taken aback by his attitude. That was last week, so I thought I’d try a private detective.’

Janice walked in and handed her a glass of water. ‘You’re in good company here, Mrs Erskine; you’ve come to the right place,’ Janice said with a warm smile.

She looked at Janice.

‘You don’t have any sparkling, say San Pellegrino by any chance, do you?’ she said.

Janice looked at her.

My face went straight. ‘Sorry, it’s only tap around here, but it’s pretty good and cheaper by the litre.’

‘Frank!’ Janice said, slowly shaking her head.

I cleared my throat as Janice left.

The woman peered at the glass in her hand.

‘Cassandra disappeared three weeks ago,’ I said. ‘Anything unusual happen around that time? What’d been going on that’d make her leave?’

She stroked the side of her face then glanced past me to the window. ‘You know it’s funny, these things don’t occur to you while you’re with someone – you only realise what was apparent when they’re not there,’ she said. ‘I guess I noticed her acting a little withdrawn – retreating to her room on weekends when she stayed with me. Of course, she would be at uni during the week and then come home on weekends, holidays, that sort of thing.’

‘Which university is she at?’

‘Deakin, over at Waurn Ponds. She is in the first year of her nursing degree. One of the younger students there, I’m told. She resides in one of the residences, um Barton College, Evatt unit. Yes, that’s it. I’m sorry if I but I feel a little flustered when I start to talk about it all... these days, I don’t know if it’s night or day.’

‘That’s okay. Has she always stayed on campus?’

‘Yes, I remember going with her to have a look at the room before she started; they’re quite small. The rooms, indeed the buildings, are awful – so bland. Sorry, yes, I had mentioned that she would come home on weekends. She’s quite fortunate to be at uni. I hear that a number of people are losing their jobs at the moment.

I sat back in my chair and wondered if we were both from the same planet. ‘Do you know if she had any problems there, or with friends, or with Simon? Did she have any problems with her father? What was their relationship like?’

She picked up her handbag and rummaged for something, then closed it again. Her hands shook slightly as the weight of her emotions mounted.

‘As far as I know she enjoyed her study; well that’s what she told me,’ she said. ‘Cassandra socialised with her friends. We would spend time together when she came back to Lorne from Geelong. She would stay at her father’s, or occasionally at mine. She had a wonderful relationship with her father and Simon. There were no problems there that I’m aware of. You know, we would meet for coffee every Saturday morning. It was our little ritual; one of those things that mothers and daughters indulge in. Other than that, we would talk over the phone, text, that sort of thing. I think she got on with Rebecca as she’s considerably younger than Lawrence.’

‘Rebecca is…?’

‘Lawrence’s new wife. God! I just realised that I’m constantly referring to Cassandra in the past tense, I mean–’

‘It’s alright. No one is assuming anything here. Take your time.’

‘Sorry, I’m just a little flustered.’ She raised her now empty glass, ‘Would you mind? I’m a little parched; the drive from Lorne took somewhat longer than I expected,’ she said.

‘Sure, it’s a fair drive.’

I pushed out from the desk, took the glass from her hand, re-filled it and returned.

‘Now you were talking about your husband,’ I said, handing her the glass.

I sat back in my chair and clasped my hands.

She took a sip, then leaned forward in her chair, ‘Sorry, yes Lawrence or Larry to those who know him. She calls him Larry.’

‘Rebecca?’

‘Yes, Rebecca.’

My hand pulled open a drawer, lifted out a notepad, which lay next to a small bottle of Teachers and an empty .38 Special, and then I leaned over the desk and made some notes.

‘I understand your husband has a real estate firm in Lorne.’

‘Yes, Erskine Real Estate. He’s quite well known within certain circles.’

A short smile slid across my face, ‘Yeah, those people usually are. Now, tell me about the new wife, Rebecca.’

Mrs Erskine stood, placed her coat on the chair, and then sat down. ‘She... Rebecca, as I said, is considerably younger than Lawrence.’

‘How much younger?’

‘He’s sixty-five and she’s around forty, I think. He told me she was a little over fifty, well pardon me, but she’s not fifty – she’s definitely forty or so. Any woman could tell you that.’

‘I’m sure.’

The woman eyed me up. ‘I guess he was after someone younger, more attractive; men get like that, don’t they.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Do you think there’s any trouble between Cassandra and Rebecca?’

‘No, I don’t think so. The police asked me all these same sorts of questions.’

‘Yeah, they’d do that if they were worth anything.’

‘Well as I said to them, they seem to get along really well. Obviously, I don’t see Rebecca much, but when Cassandra is there, she seems to enjoy herself.’

I left my seat and paced around a little, then peered out the window. The rain had stopped and the clouds had started to break again. For a second, I listened to the hum of the traffic.

My hands slid into my pockets, and then I turned to her. ‘What about your son, Simon? He must be pretty upset by it all.’

She folded her hands. ‘Simon is devastated,’ she said.

‘Is he older or younger than Cassandra?’

‘Cassandra is about a year older than Simon. He’ll be seventeen in November. He’s in year eleven.’

‘What school does he go to?’

She sat back and crossed her legs, ‘Oh, the College,’ she said.

‘What college?’

‘Well, The Geelong College, of course. Sorry I–’

‘Okay, so how long has he been there?’

‘Simon went to the local primary school before he went there at the start of year seven, so I suppose he’s been there, what, about four or five years. He’s in Mackie – the boys’ dorm. He’ll stay there so long as Lawrence writes the cheques.’

‘I see. You said Simon is pretty down with Cassandra gone.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, and uncrossed her legs. ‘He adores Cassandra; he’s very upset. Thankfully Sophie helps him through it, though I’m not entirely sure about her.

‘Why?’

‘Oh, just things she says; I find her a little crude. I haven’t met her parents, but I’d imagine she would get her tongue from them. I don’t know if she has a particularly good influence on Simon. She doesn’t attend Geelong College you know. Perhaps that has something to do with it. As far as I know, she just went to the local high school, and now works at one of the shops.’

I perched on the corner of my desk. ‘You got something against her – Sophie?’ 29

‘No. She’s quite lovely, really. It’s not her fault she didn’t attend College.’

Her chill began to wear thin. I could see why her kids lived with the old man. ‘Tell me, does Cassandra have a boyfriend, or girlfriend?’

‘No, at least not that I am aware, and I’m sure she’s not a lesbian, if that’s what you’re asking. She doesn’t look like one for a start, not that she’d probably tell me if she was. I try to be opened minded about these fads that people go through. But I don’t think so.’

I rubbed my top lip, and then sat back in my chair. ‘Do you know if she’s a party girl?’ I said.

She leaned forward, ‘Err, excuse me – what do you mean by that exactly – that she sleeps around?’ she said coldly. ‘Is that what you mean? Because if it is, Mr Carver, I do not care for the insinuation.’

My body hunched forward. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I mean, do you know if she went to parties? Did she drink? Do you know if she dabbled in drugs?’

‘As I said Mr Carver, Cassandra led a good social life, she has friends, but do I think my daughter is a drug addict? No, I do not. She may well go out with her friends, perhaps have a drink, but that’s about it.’

‘So what do you think happened? Why has Cassandra been missing for six weeks, Mrs Erskine?’

I eased out of my chair and slowly moved to the front of my desk, tapped the surface, wandered around, and peered at her from the far side of the room. Then I waited for her to lose the facade.

She fidgeted in her chair. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what she may have done that she couldn’t tell me about.’

I stroked my chin, feeling the coarse bristles of not having shaved at Lauren’s apartment earlier, and then sat back in my chair.

‘I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t ask, but do you know if there’s anything missing from the house – say ornaments, cash, jewellery – that sort of thing?’

The words hit her like a train. Her face crashed down into her hands as she started to sob.

‘I told myself on the way here that I wouldn’t cry,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘I can’t help it. Yes, some things have been taken. I, I remember asking her and Simon about them – just silly little things, but I suppose they’re things you notice first. Maybe a few weeks later, I met Cassandra for one of our usual Saturday coffee mornings. She had told me that she was going to wear a lovely pullover that I had bought her from David Jones. But, when she arrived, she wasn’t wearing it. She told me she had lent it to Sophie. But when I asked Sophie about it a day or so later, she knew nothing about it. It didn’t dawn on me until I found a receipt, while I was doing some of Cassandra’s washing, that she had returned it. I found a number of receipts for returned clothes.’

‘Was there anything else?’

‘Well, Lawrence and I gave her a lovely necklace and brooch for her seventeenth birthday. She wore the necklace all the time, and had the brooch pinned on her favourite jacket. I asked her about it at one of our coffee mornings – why she wasn’t wearing them anymore. She told me she’d lost them. Then she became upset after I’d told her that she had needed to have been more careful – they were expensive. Sometime later, I noticed that some of my jewellery had also gone missing. I asked Simon if he knew where it was, but he didn’t know. Then when I asked Cassandra, she just yelled at me for even asking her.’

She took a sip of water, and then held me with her sad eyes.

‘If she needed money, why wouldn’t she just ask?’ she said. ‘What was hurtful, let alone completely embarrassing, was to find out from a friend of mine, that she had seen Cassandra go into a pawn shop. A pawn shop! I just don’t know any more.’

My feet stopped wandering.

‘So, you didn’t think Cassandra was a party girl, that she didn’t do drugs, and you saw her regularly – every Saturday, or most Saturday mornings for coffee,’ I said.

Her eyes widened with interest.

‘What was Cassandra’s general appearance like? Did she look good, did she have a healthy complexion?’ 31

‘Cassandra liked to sit outside in the sun. Sometimes she would complain about feeling cold, but I didn’t take too much notice. Some people are like that aren’t they – they’re always cold. She would wear her sunglasses a lot, even inside at my house. I guess it’s a fad.’

Mrs Erskine then shifted about in her seat like a boat in a deep swell. My feet led me back to my chair.

Then she eyeballed me. ‘Where are you going with this, Mr Carver? What would you like me to say: that my daughter is a drug addict?’

‘I’m sorry. I realise this is difficult. I’ve asked these questions to parents before. It’s hard for me to ask the question; it’s hard for everyone.’

Her eyes were wet. Then she spoke quietly. ‘A couple of weeks before she, err, well, a few times she appeared pale. The next time, she seemed to have had lost some weight, and had red blemishes or spots on her face. I asked her about her health, but she said she was fine – that some bug had been going around on campus, and that she had stayed in her residence to recover. I believed her. I later made her some chicken soup to take back with her. My God, how could this happen? How could this happen, Mr Carver? I’ve asked myself a hundred times and keep coming back to the same answer – I don’t know.’

‘From what you’re telling me, it sounds like she’s got herself mixed up in something, probably drugs, and she’s trying to pay back whoever she owes money to,’ I said calmly.

She peered away into the distance as I found myself scratching the back of my head.

‘I’ll take the case, if you want me to?’

She wiped her eyes and sighed a lungful of hurt. ‘I would appreciate that, Mr Carver,’ she said. ‘Any help to find Cassandra would be most gratefully accepted.’

‘Okay, did Janice tell you my fee? I’ll also require a retainer – some money for expenses, food, petrol, accommodation for when I go to Lorne.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ she said. ‘That’s no problem. Well, when Mr Carver, can you start?’

‘I already have.’

‘Really?’

‘Now, I don’t want to appear rude, but is that something you can afford? I mean it can sometimes take a while; things can add up.’

She sat back and crossed her legs. Her face appeared a little happier, creases developed around her eyes and mouth.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr Carver,’ she said. ‘You will be comfortably reimbursed for your services. We love our daughter dearly, and will pay whatever it takes to have her back with us.’

Janice lightly tapped on the door, and swung it open.

‘Janice, I’m going to help Mrs Erskine find her daughter.’

Janice smiled and stepped inside.

Mrs Erskine turned around toward her.

‘That’s great,’ Janice said. ‘He’s a good man, Mrs Erskine, I’m sure he will be able to find your daughter.’

Mrs Erskine gathered her things and stood next to her chair. ‘Well, I guess this is it,’ she said, and finished her glass of water.

I hitched myself off the desk. ‘Yes. Do you have a photo of Cassandra I could use?’

‘Yes,’ she said, and rummaged in her bag. A second later, she plucked out least half a dozen images of her daughter and handed them to me.

‘Okay, good. Okay, well I’ll be in Lorne tomorrow afternoon; I could meet you at the cafe you go to with Cassandra, you know, get a feel for the place, see where you hung out. What’s it called again?’

‘Yes, that would be fine. It’s called Moon’s Espresso Bar.’

I reached out to shake her hand. ‘Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow around two,’ I said.

She nodded. Her hand felt cold, clammy like she’d been running on adrenaline, and then burnt herself out.

‘Janice will get your details. Goodbye, Mr Erskine.’

‘Yes goodbye, Mr Carver,’ she said, slightly waving her hand.

Janice escorted her to reception.

A few minutes later, Janice sauntered back into my office after Anne Erskine had left. ‘So, what do you think?’ Janice enquired with a brief grin.

I sat back in my chair and propped my feet on the desk. ‘I don’t know. It sounds like the girl got herself mixed up in something – owes money to her dealer or something, and won’t dare face the music. I could be wrong – maybe it isn’t as bad as it’s been made out, you know what the papers are like – beat something up.’

Janice perched on the corner of the desk, her foot swinging slightly. ‘I didn’t get the impression Simon’s girlfriend had anything to do with it,’ she said.

A grin cracked my face, as I leaned over and shoved her off. ‘Next time I’ll leave the door open so you can get the whole conversation.’

My hands rummaged in my jacket pockets and pulled out a twenty. ‘I don’t suppose you went to get any decent coffee before, did you?’ I asked dryly.

‘Ha, no I was too busy listening to what was said,’ she smiled coyly.

‘Well pretty please?’ Then I grabbed the phone, picked up the receiver and eyed Janice. ‘I’ve got to book a motel room somewhere.’

Janice grabbed the twenty. ‘Fine,’ she said, gave me a wink, and then walked out the door.

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, I packed a small bag. I didn’t expect to be in Lorne too long – just to suss things out, especially if the missing Erskine girl was on one long bender, or just another turnaround runaway – turnaround and she’d be back.

The drive to Lorne would take an hour or so from the city, along the Great Ocean Road. The back way to the coastal town ran west to Winchelsea, along the Princes Highway, before it cut south through the ‘blink and you’ll miss ’em’ towns of Bambra and Deans Marsh. The route took longer, but still a nice drive – sweeping views of old sheep stations, idyllic retreats, dense rainforest and small country pubs.

The door locked behind me as I left for the office. I couldn’t imagine my flat done up to be something else; it wouldn’t suit the style of the building or the rest of those in the street – shabby chic. I didn’t like it.

About ten minutes later, I pulled up in a one-way street. There was an empty space in the street behind the office building, and I edged the car between two dumpsters. Warm air clung to my white shirt as I stepped out and made my way to the office. I slid my sunglasses from my pocket to blunt the sunny brightness but found them scratched from my keys. That was another pair for the bin. I slipped a key from my pocket and opened the door. The building’s lobby appeared dark from the street, as I walked in, climbed the stairs to my office, and unlocked the door. Bright sunlight pierced through the white venetian blinds into the musty room. I checked my watch – it read 8.20AM. Janice hadn’t arrived. The place was quiet and still like a morgue before rush hour.

I sat in my chair and gazed out the window – vehicles swam along the streets like sharks, as if waiting for an opportunity to devour whatever might get in their way. Another ‘For Lease’ sign had been plastered across a shop window; another business down the proverbial. Ten years ago, this end of town was the city’s heart before its new-found soul slid down the hill towards the bay. Now everything hovered above the water – businesses, swanky apartments, restaurants, and money – the gentrified city by the bay.

The office felt cold and stale. I opened a window, sat, rolled a cigarette and then read the details of the room I’d booked for a couple of nights – a three-star hotel 35 in Lorne. I could’ve gone up a market – there was plenty of choice, but Erskine’s money needed to last.

I wanted to burn the end of my smoke and enjoy it in solitude, but I just watched the shadows stretch across the wall.

I left the office, got my smoke going and picked up a newspaper. About twenty minutes later I was back. I fixed myself and Janice a cup of black sin, before I sat, and then pored over the headlines. A moment later, the office door opened. It was Janice.

She walked in, looking her smart, happy self. ‘You’re in early Frank, what happened, did she give you the boot?’ she smirked.

My eyes flashed at her.

‘Hey, you made coffee!’ she smiled. ‘Makes a change.’

Janice started flicking through the paper.

‘Help yourself, why don’t you!’ I grizzled.

‘So you’re off to Lorne today?’

‘Yeah, I just have a couple of things to sort out first.’

The next page of the paper featured an article about the Erskine family – page eleven. Without any fresh leads, it was becoming old news.

‘There’s another story in here about the missing girl’s family,’ said Janice. ‘It says the mother has hired a private investigator.’

She placed the paper on my desk. ‘See, here,’ she said, and pointed at the story. ‘It doesn’t mention your name though.’

‘That’d be right. We could do with some more clients. Though publicity can be a double-edged sword.’

I left my chair and grabbed what I needed. The desk drawer opened as I thought about taking the gun. The .38 Special lay there next to the small bottle of Teachers like a pair of suicidal twins. As I placed the revolver on the desk, I remembered its licence was up for renewal. The drawer below revealed a brown leather holster. I grabbed it and placed it next to the .38. Next to that was a pack of bullets. 36

Janice peered over the newspaper she held in her hands. ‘Are you going take that with you?’ she asked.

‘Do you think I’ll need it?’

‘I don’t know, do you?’

Janice approached and picked up the gun, feeling the weight in her hand. ‘I don’t know, Frank. Lorne’s not exactly Sydney, is it?’ she said.

I raised my hand. ‘All right, you can put it down now. I don’t want half your bloody face all over my nice, clean desk.’

Janice smiled and placed the gun down. ‘It’s hardly clean, Frank!’ she said, and then sauntered back to her own desk.

The list of Cassandra’s friends that Mrs Erskine gave me yesterday remained on my desk. Before I dialled the numbers, I checked out if there was anything on Facebook. Someone had created a page asking for information with pictures of the missing girl, with links to a Twitter account. I scoured the site for anything that might help. Then I returned to Mrs Erskine’s list of names. There were about five names, and all were girls. Strange there were no fellas. Most of the numbers were mobiles as well as ones from around Geelong, some Melbourne. I grabbed the phone and dialled. On the end of the line, I heard mostly tears, sad stories about their missing friend; while with a couple, it was their parents who answered, saying their daughters were away on holiday – Bali or the Gold Coast. One wasn’t even aware the Erskine girl was missing. Some friend.

CHAPTER 5

The drive from Torquay to Lorne was serene. I felt relaxed and calm but couldn’t seem to drag my eyes away from the plunging cliffs. It was a like a spike of danger in a high calm, like a narcotic, maybe a lot like Lauren – addictive, yet somehow beyond reach. Only the surfers, down at Bells Beach and other breaks, could get such a hit.

I didn’t stop at any of the towns – Anglesea, Aireys Inlet, Fairhaven; I didn’t want to stop and think about Lauren. I was getting the feeling she was leading me down a short pier which led to a long drop. I still couldn’t quite get over her ‘how long have we been doing this – you know fucking each other’ comment. Perhaps some time apart, with me on this case, would do us good.

As I drove past the Aireys Inlet lighthouse, I remembered as a teenager watching the news of the Ash Wednesday fires. Where my family lived in Belmont, we could see the deathly glow in the distance, and wondered if the blaze would eventually reach us. The vision was like an apocalyptic nightmare that had come true. The Soviets didn’t need to drop the bomb, Mother Nature had a fine knack of doing man’s dirty work all by her vicious self.

The blaze consumed all serenity in its path – the shore being peoples’ only escape. The wildlife didn’t stand a chance; their bodies engulfed in flame. The count of their charred, disfigured corpses ran into thousands.

Eventually, the road took me to the Great Ocean Road memorial. I checked my watch: 1.45PM. Lorne was only another five, maybe ten minutes away. Along the way, I’d glanced over at the number of houses built into the hills, or on concrete stilts that took in the view of Bass Strait. The houses, even the dumps, cost a fortune. God knows what the owners did, for as sure as hell it wasn’t doing my job.

Despite Lorne’s ‘holiday’ appeal, I didn’t like the town. It was full of well- heeled has-beens or wannabes who talked more than they could chew; who spoke behind mirrored sunglasses and between sips of Chardonnay about getting cheap thrills in Thailand or Bali.

Nearing the coastal town, the Cumberland stood out like a dark, dried-up melon. Beyond that, the pier jutted out to meet the ocean depths. When I arrived, the

38 place was still abuzz with tourists scouring all-day breakfast menus. The locals had returned from their jaunts around the world that let them earn a pretty packet by leasing their joints for thousands a week.

I pulled over and peered through the windscreen along the main drag of Mountjoy Parade. The street buzzed with activity as tourists, backpackers, locals and out-of-towners mingled and mixed like a goddamn cocktail as they paraded along the street looking for a place to eat, drink, or to take their mind off their lives. The place was already getting to me and I’d just arrived; I found it hard to breathe. But I was due to meet Mrs Erskine so I drew a long breath and killed the motor.

I left the car and wandered down the street to the meet: Moon’s Espresso Bar. The specials board didn’t ring any bells, so I ordered a coffee and a sandwich. I sat outside and rolled a smoke; the alfresco area had a couple of empty tables, which suited me – I couldn’t be bothered with small talk. I just wanted to have something to eat and catch the view. I had half an hour before Anne Erskine was due.

The scenery was good enough to be pretty – the sea mirrored the sky – aquamarine blue with a hint of white and grey – as if painted by numbers. A line of tall cypress trees snaked along the esplanade and filtered my view of the Grand Pacific Hotel.

The humidity and temperature had climbed. My shirt clung to my chest as I glanced toward the car. Lauren entered my mind and wanted to stay. I guessed she would’ve finished her shift by now. She’d look for her mobile and maybe think about giving me a call. She’d watch some TV, take a swig of that vodka, and if she was feeling bad about her and Lyle, then she’d down her pills and cry over the photo on the bedside drawers, and then wake up and do it all over again. That’s no way to fucking live, but I didn’t know what to do for her. I could hardly look after myself.

The coffee arrived. I sipped the dark brew then placed the cup back on the saucer, burnt the end of my smoke, and then took another sip. The sandwich appeared and I ate it quickly, before I polished off the rest of the coffee. It was now two, and right on cue Anne Erskine arrived. She was with a group of people, about the same age. I wasn’t expecting she’d bring anyone, let alone the town’s committee.

‘Mr Carver, how are you?’ she said. ‘I hope you had a pleasant drive down.’

She removed her large framed sunglasses.

I shook her hand and smiled, ‘Hello, Mrs Erskine,’ I said.

‘Call me Anne. Good, you’ve had something to eat,’ she said, as she pulled up a chair to the table.

‘Yeah. So, this where you and Cassandra would do breakfast? You picked a great spot.’

‘Yes, it’s quite lovely, especially in the mornings when it’s a little crisp and the coffee is hot,’ she said. She placed her sunglasses on the table, and then introduced me to her friends, only briefly exchanging pleasantries.

She gestured toward me. ‘This is Frank Carver,’ she said. ‘Mr Carver is a private detective. He’s helping us find Cassandra.’

They greeted me with muffled approval, slim smiles and limp handshakes. The first of the two couples were Eddie Shaw and a name I missed due to the clatter and chatter. He had a slight face with lines down his cheeks, a warm complexion and mousy-brown hair and wore a short-sleeved shirt and spray-on jeans. His lady-friend wasn’t much better, with a leathery tan, fake nails and lashes, and all white ensemble including shoes. She was a good ten years younger than him, making her about 50, but the tan didn’t do her any favours. I wouldn’t expect any less in this town. The other pair, already in their chairs and remaining seated, were Felicity and Richard. They waved at me from the far end of table. Her gold bracelets chinked around her wrist. He was blonde, mid-50s and slim, while she was a brunette and a little younger. They sat with their pullovers hung over their shoulders and arms crossed over their chests like castaways from Gilligan’s Island. Odds-on they were wearing boat shoes. They oozed pretence and old money. I didn’t like them.

I figured they were there for moral support in some way.

‘You should bring your wife here, I’m sure she would like it,’ said Mrs Erskine. ‘You are married, aren’t you, Mr Carver?’

‘No. Decree nisi I’m afraid.’

A blank expression fell over their faces.

‘I’m divorced,’ I said.

They collectively murmured. ‘Oh, well these things happen,’ one said. ‘So, you’re single then?’ another enquired.

‘Uh-huh.’

I gestured to one of the staff and promptly the table ordered coffee.

Anne handed me another photo of Cassandra, this time at the beach. She looked okay – shoulder-length blonde hair, white t-shirt, cut-off jeans, and a healthy complexion. The girl seemed nice, but no stunner, which explained why the press were no longer really interested. She looked like her mother with a slight button nose. I realised it was the same photo that had appeared in the newspaper. Why would she run away? People don’t disappear without a reason.

‘So, this is the last place you saw Cassandra?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was a lovely morning, but I could tell something was troubling her. I asked her if anything was wrong but she just fobbed me off saying that I wouldn’t understand. I didn’t think too much about it at the time… if only I had.’

‘Do you think she ran away?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know why she would. I mean, why? She could talk to me… her father, even Rebecca.’

‘Did she ever come here with anyone?’

‘No, it was always just us… just mother and daughter, you know for some girl time.’

‘Did you go anywhere else together – shopping, anything like that?’

‘Yes occasionally, but mostly we just stayed here, before she would go off onto whatever else she had planned for the day.’

‘And, what usually would that be?’

‘Ah well, she would say “Oh, just the usual sort of thing, Mum, just stuff”. So, I assumed that to be study and maybe see some friends. I didn’t expect it to be really anything else.’ 41

I was hoping she wouldn’t become upset, as I tried to console her. ‘Did she ever talk about guys she’d been seeing, anything like that?’

‘I did ask her a few times about that sort of thing, and you know, she would laugh coyly a little, but then dismiss it. So, to me there was nothing serious. Otherwise, I may have met him.

Anne leaned over the table and gazed at her daughter’s image.

‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she,’ she said.

‘She’s very attractive. I’m sure I’ll be able to find her. People notice good looking people.’

‘I don’t know what happened to us, to her. We used to be so close; we would do everything together. But when Lawrence and I separated everything else seemed to fall apart. We eventually both felt that the kids were old enough to make the decision where they wanted to live: with me, or their father. I wasn’t able to cope very well for some time, and realised that it would be better for them if they lived with their father. I don’t know if they realise how sorry I am that I couldn’t be there for them when they needed a mother. I blame myself. I should have done more.’

Her voice choked with emotion before she wiped tears from her eyes.

The coffees arrived.

She turned away, away from her friends towards the ocean and its impenetrable depths. I was hoping she wouldn’t become upset as one of her friends consoled her as the others talked amongst themselves. It was pleasant enough, but I didn’t want to hang around for the conversation to take a sad turn.

She ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino, and then delved into her handbag and fished out a tissue and wiped her nose.

‘I have some more, just in case,’ Shaw said.

Anne turned. ‘Thank you, Eddie,’ she said, accepting a small packet of tissues.

‘It’s terrible about Cassandra, absolutely terrible,’ he said, turning to me. ‘There was an information caravan set up just outside the main Lorne pub, you know

42 in case anyone had... well, any information.’ The man then turned back to Mrs Erskine. ‘I take it no sign of dear Cassandra?’

He slid his hand back into his pocket. He didn’t seem as close to her as the others at the table did, but friendly all the same.

‘No, not yet,’ Anne said, shaking slightly before dabbing her nose again. ‘Though, hopefully now with Mr Carver, we might be in a bit of luck.’ She slid her sunglasses back on her face. ‘I did mention that Mr Carver is a private investigator, didn’t I?’

I raised myself off my seat and shook his hand. It felt small and thin. He was of average height with a slim smile.

‘Hmm, I’m sure you won’t need any luck, Mr Carver, to find her,’ Shaw said.

‘I don’t know – luck can play a hell of game when it wants to. Sometimes it’s all you’ve got.’

Shaw and some of the others at the table let out some giggles. His voice sounded as tinny as aluminium foil. He sat back in his seat and started talking to his lady-friend and a woman next to him. It was all pleasant enough.

Shaw checked his watch before he and his lady-friend stood. ‘Hmm, well, we’d better be off, Anne,’ he said. ‘You know, things to do, people to see.’

Anne rose and gave the pair a quick hug. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘It was good to see you again.’

Shaw slid a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket, placed them on his nose and then flicked his fingers into the air.

‘Yes,’ Shaw’s lady-friend said. ‘It was a delight to have met you, Mr Carver.’

Then they slightly waved to me.

I didn’t bother getting up again.

‘Yeah,’ I said.

Anne poured the mineral water into a glass. She took a long sip and placed the glass on the table. 43

‘How do you know them?’ I said, rolling a smoke.

‘Well, I don’t really,’ she said. ‘They’re friends of Felicity and Richard’.

‘I met Eddie sometime last year. Lawrence introduced me to him,’ she said. ‘But I’ve never really seen him more than that.’

I burnt the end of my cigarette and took a drag. For some reason it tasted different, like burnt rubber. I killed the smoke on the pavement.

‘Oh, I think Lawrence likes to think he’ll make a fortune, well perhaps Rebecca likes to think so,’ said Anne. ‘Anyway, when Eddie arrived a year or so back, Lawrence told me that he was involved in property development. So, of course, Lawrence jumped the gun and got in on the deal. I didn’t really take much notice. I don’t care, really. You’re better to ask Lawrence about him.

I was eager to leave, check-in to the motel I’d booked, and work on the case. I got up. The remaining party briefly peered in my direction, and then turned away.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr Carver?’ Anne asked, before taking a sip from her glass.

‘Tell me, why didn’t Lawrence join you at my office yesterday?’

She fidgeted in her seat. ‘Well, I guess he has a business to run, and I imagine Rebecca would rather have him here with her.’

‘I see.’

‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr Carver?’ she asked again with a slight smile.

‘No, I don’t think so. If there’s anything, I’ll call. I’ve got to call Mr Erskine.’

Anne rose from her chair.

‘Yes, I told him that you would once you were in town,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’d be expecting your call soon.’

‘Okay, well if there’s anything that comes to mind... I believe Janice gave you my card so my number’s on that if you need to call me about anything.’

Anne, along with Felicity and Richard, remained at the café. I took a slow walk down the street, and then ventured into a sunglasses shop – my pair had become too scratched to wear for any length of time. The locals eyeballed me – a cheap, crumpled suit didn’t fit with their Benetton t-shirts and Diesel denim shorts. I slid on a pair of shades and then glanced at a small mirror on a stand. A couple of teenagers walked in, clad in the latest trends, and made some comments about my garb. They sniggered as they walked over to the counter and spoke to someone they knew.

The sunglasses dangled in my hand as I approached the counter. ‘Excuse me, how much are these?’ I said, handing the girl behind the counter the pair.

The girl, aged about 18, smiled as she took the sunglasses from my hand, then waved them under a bar-code scanner. She wore a white t-shirt, black leggings and white sandshoes. Her sandy-brown coloured hair was cut in a bob. Her ruddy complexion gave me a warm feeling.

She placed the sunnies on the counter and looked at me.

‘They’re two hundred and forty dollars,’ she said. ‘Would you like them in a bag, or would you prefer to wear them now?’

‘Huh, that’s too steep for me.’

The girl smiled. ‘Like, well, they are Dolce and Gabbana!’ she said. She looked at her friends then at me. ‘That’s how much they are. I guess you’re, like, not from around here are you?’

A slow grin smeared my face. ‘What makes you say that?’ I said. ‘Look, I don’t suppose you have anything around twenty dollars less?’

A couple of her friends looked at me then at her. They smirked.

The girl then turned to me. ‘Um, I can see what’s out the back if you like, but I think they’re pretty much like all around that price,’ she said. ‘The cheapest is about a hundred.’

I glanced at the sunglasses on the counter then at her. ‘A hundred?’ I smirked. ‘What’re they made from? Dolphin teeth? I don’t think so.’ I turned my back on the joint and left.

A pleasant breeze carried me past a couple more shops before I drove back through town and arrived at the Best Western Coachman – the three-star motel I’d booked on the outskirts of town. I checked in and found my room. The place was tidy and quiet. People who stay in Lorne, those with plenty of dosh, don’t stay in three-star motels, so I felt like I had the place to myself. I dumped my stuff on the bed, sat, and let the day seep out of my head. I checked my phone – Lauren had left a message.

CHAPTER 6

About half an hour passed before I called Lawrence Erskine. I told him I’d be there within an hour. He was pleased. My thumb then flicked messages ’til I found Lauren’s. It was brief:

‘Frank! I’ve been trying to catch you, where are you? I went round your place, but you weren’t there. Call me. I need you.’

I hit re-dial and then I lifted the mobile to my ear. The dial tone purred before her voice seeped through the speaker.

‘Frank, is that you?’ she said.

‘Yeah, how’re you going?’

‘I’ve been trying to call. I want to see you. Where are you?’

‘Lorne. I told you that I’m on a case about the missing girl. I don’t know how long I’ll be down here.’

‘I don’t care about that. I need to see you; I miss you. I’ve got the next couple of days off, so I can come down and distract you, if you get my drift?’

‘Huh, sounds good to me, but I’m on a case.’

‘One night won’t hurt. You can’t be all work and no play, Frankie!’

There was a smile in her voice – it made me feel good about us.

‘Alright! Alright! Well if you’re gonna distract me, you better get here soon.’

She gave a dirty laugh. ‘See you soon, Frankie.’

A moment later, I was on my way to Erskine’s place. The drive took me back into town, past the frenetic blur of people at bars and restaurants along the foreshore – fellas with their girlfriends – all innocent and smiles, like a scene from a bad TV drama. Then my mind drifted back to Lauren. I wanted to see her, to smell her.

I soon arrived at Erskine’s address, 2 Skyline Court. I parked across the street. His place was a two-storey architecturally designed monolith that had a clear view of Louttit Bay. It had sweeping vistas from the Grand Pacific Hotel and to the pier, in the

47 south, across to the town’s entrance in the north. The glass, steel, and timber structure appeared like it was built to be looked at – like an artwork, but not fit for living in. Some serious money had been poured into the joint. It hurt my eyes.

The air was thick and sticky with the aroma of wattle and eucalyptus. The incessant buzz of cicadas drilled into my mind. A sea breeze wafted past. It lessened the racket and cooled me a little as I stepped up to the heavy timber front door, lifted the brass knocker and tapped three times. I turned back toward the car, to the neighbours’ houses. No one was looking, and if they were, I didn’t see them. From here, the ocean was deep blue, turquoise and lime green; its expanse endless and powerful. The sea breeze strengthened.

Then the door opened.

‘Ah, G’day, Mr Carver, I’ve been expecting you,’ an older stocky man said.

I shook his hand. ‘Mr Erskine, how are you?’

He smiled. ‘Mate, call me Larry – everybody else does, well, except Anne, but you would’ve already found that out I s’ppose,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other until we get our Cassy – Cassandra – back.’

I nodded briefly.

Erskine then moved closer. ‘You’ll find her won’t you, Mr Carver? I mean, that’s what you blokes do, innit?’ he said.

I placed my hand on the side of his arm. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you will. You must.’

He turned, slumped slightly and wiped his eyes. I felt bad for the old man. But by the look of him, he could afford the therapy. For some reason, I expected him to be taller, but he was shorter than me – about 5'7", receding grey-white hair and a little overweight. His soft blue eyes bulged under duress, while his voice was round and deep, low enough to fill a well. He wore a cream-coloured open neck shirt – two buttons down from the collar and cuffs turned up, beige linen pants and boat shoes. He wore a thin gold chain around his neck, a wide gold band on his ring finger, and a Rolex on his wrist.

‘Please, come in mate,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

Erskine led me into the lounge room. The place resembled a gallery – white walls, long wooden floors and uncomfortable looking furniture that was responsible for many a sore back. The late afternoon sun blazed into the west-facing large timber window. Near the kitchen, a wooden staircase with steel railings staggered up to the second level. The room was quiet. It had an eerie stillness I couldn’t figure out. Decorative rugs – Iranian or Turkish – were scattered across the floor. Landscapes and portraits hung on the walls, and bronze sculptures and hollow ceramics sat on lamp tables.

‘You have a nice place,’ I said, without believing it.

‘Thanks mate. Would you excuse me for a moment, I’ve just got to, err... just make yourself comfortable.’

The welcome was warm, but I felt a chill, like I was being watched. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted, and my heartbeat quickened. Standing in the silence made me uneasy, like waiting in a doctors’ surgery to have your guts poked. It felt morbid, cold.

A kid appeared from the shadow of the kitchen. He had short reddish hair and metal-framed glasses. His face was caked in acne – where he didn’t have it was scarred from it. The poor bastard looked like a mangled vanilla slice. He clung to the door jamb in his red and white striped t-shirt and blue jeans, like a reject from Where’s Wally? He strode into the lounge room, and turned on the expensive-looking stereo. I didn’t recognise the music, it sounded like grinding metal as it resonated around the room. He picked at his face, and then turned to me.

‘Who are you?’ he said. His voice was like a ballsy girl.

Erskine returned. ‘Ah mate, this is Mr Carver,’ Erskine said. ‘He’s a private investigator. He’s here to find our Cassandra.’

‘I guess you must be Simon,’ I said.

‘What makes you say that?’ said Simon.

Erskine shifted his body. ‘Come on mate, Mr Carver is here to find your sister,’ he said. ‘Don’t be like that.’

‘Like what?’ Simon smirked.

The kid sat on a black leather couch, pushed the white leather cushions to one side and started at his face again. The couch looked new – it was smooth, and still had the showroom smell. Simon’s face was pockmarked like angry moon craters.

He caught me eyeballing him as he tried to dab a bleeder.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, stop staring.’

I paced around a little to ease the tension before gesturing towards the paintings. ‘You have some nice pieces,’ I said.

Suddenly, footsteps slapped the stairs, heels prodding at the wood on their descent.

‘Oh yes, and they’re all originals!’ a female voice exclaimed.

I turned and watched an attractive woman seemingly float down the narrow staircase to the lounge room floor.

‘They’re quite beautiful, don’t you think, Mr Carver?’ she said.

I smiled. ‘I guess you must be Mrs Erskine.’

‘Oh no, she’s in the little house without the view – you can call me Rebecca,’ she said.

I was entranced. Hell, does anybody say that any more – entranced. Rebecca was all legs, with deep brown hair resting on her bare shoulders. The black dress she had on made her a little pale, slightly gothic. Her voice had an alluring smokiness to it.

She glided over to us, and then sat next to Simon. Erskine sat on a chair opposite. Her presence engulfed the room. I felt like she had taken all the air with her and found it hard to breathe.

‘Please sit down, Mr Carver,’ Rebecca said.

I sat and then fanned my shirt away from my chest. The humidity inside was worse than it was outside. The ceiling fan sat idle with a couple of flies making use of the still blades. Rebecca noticed.

‘Larry, turn on the fan, will you? It’s too warm in here,’ she said, flicking her hand toward him.

Erskine got up, switched on the fan, wiped his eyes and then sat down.

I felt uncomfortable, like a polar bear in a sauna.

I turned to Rebecca. ‘You have a nice place.’

‘Yes, we recently had it built, didn’t we Larry?’ she said, turning toward him. He smiled glibly and started playing with his ear. ‘I just love new things, don’t I, Larry? All things modern,’ she said. ‘Larry? Stop playing with your ear, babes.’

‘Yeah, sorry,’ he said, and then folded his arms.

‘As I was about to say, Mr Carver, I love modern art, you know – paintings, sculptures – that sort of thing. I just love to gaze at beautiful things.’

Simon sighed. ‘Oh please, you wouldn’t know art if you tripped on it,’ he said.

Erskine peered at his son. ‘Come on mate, now don’t be like that,’ he said, then crossed his legs and glanced towards me.

‘Now, Mr Carver, can we get you something to drink?’ Erskine said, as he checked his watch. ‘Half-past four – would you like a gin and tonic or a beer, perhaps? Oh, I forgot, I suppose you don’t drink on the job, that’s right, innit?’

‘That’s okay, I’m not a cop. I’m not bound by their rules. A beer would be good. Thanks.’

Erskine glanced over at Simon. ‘Simon would you mind making some drinks please – a beer for Mr Carver, I’ll have my usual, and Rebecca, what would you like, love?’ he said.

Rebecca smiled at me. ‘Ooh, I think I’ll have a beer too,’ she said.

Rebecca then turned to Simon and smiled. ‘Good boy,’ she said. 51

‘I’m not a boy,’ Simon sneered at her. ‘I’ll be seventeen in November!’

‘Huh? Sorry Simon,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said, then walked off into the kitchen.

Rebecca sat back into the couch and quickly gave me the once over. Erskine played with his watch, while I tried not to think about what she was like in bed; my mind searched for every image that wasn’t her naked. But when I looked up it was if she was watching my thoughts on a screen above me.

‘Interesting choice in music,’ I said, as I tried to focus on the case.

‘I put the song on actually, Mr Carver,’ Rebecca said. ‘I like it; it’s hard, but becomes softer later. Do you like it?’

‘Sounds like some people I know. It brings a certain mood I guess.’ I didn’t care, but it seemed odd that music would be playing when we were meant to be discussing the whereabouts of Cassandra.

Suddenly, Erskine shifted about in his chair, fiddling with his watch. ‘I only bought this the other day – and you know what, it’s scratched,’ he said flustered, holding out his wrist. ‘Sorry mate, it’s… I’m, you know, just having a bit of trouble talking about Cassandra.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’d be in a far worse state. Even when I spoke with Anne earlier, she seemed quite calm. I don’t know how you do it.’

Rebecca leaned forward. ‘Oh, how is Anne?’ she said. ‘I don’t see her much, obviously, perhaps in town occasionally. It must be hard for her, being alone.’

There was the sound of breaking glass in the kitchen.

‘Don’t you fucking hate that?’ Simon called out from the kitchen.

Erskine glanced toward the kitchen, and then turned to me with a lazy smile. ‘Don’t take any notice,’ he said. ‘As I’m sure you can appreciate Simon has taken this badly. He and Cassandra are very close.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard worse, I’ve said worse.’

‘I better see how he’s getting on,’ said Erskine. 52

As Erskine left the room, I got up and wandered over to one of the floor-to- ceiling windows. It looked out to the ocean. Clouds had darkened, thickened and the humidity brought rain. The room needed air. I needed air.

A moment later, Simon and Erskine came in with the drinks and placed them on the oak coffee table that sat between the couch and the two chairs. We sat and I grabbed my drink. The cool liquid quenched my thirst, and broke the tension. Rebecca peered at me over her glass.

‘Simon, I hear you’re at Geelong College?’ I said, before taking another mouthful.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘You live in one of the dorms there don’t you, Mackie isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re home early for the week, aren’t you?’

Simon peered at his old man, and then abruptly left the room. For a second, nothing was said, just sideways glances. Tension rose.

I turned to Erskine. ‘Something wrong?’ I said.

Erskine leaned toward me. ‘Simon’s having some treatment; he’s seeing a dermatologist in Melbourne,’ he said. ‘We’d left the fan off because we’d been told that the humidity helps open the pores, helps get rid of all the gunk in his skin. Poor mite, I feel bad for him. They say it’s in the genes, you know.’

I slipped out Cassandra’s photograph from my jacket pocket and placed it on the coffee table. Erskine slowly picked it up, as if he wasn’t sure if he should or not, like it didn’t belong to him. He held it in his hands and smiled. His eyes grew damp.

Rebecca crossed her legs, glanced at Erskine then at me, before lightly brushing her hand over her calf. My eyes followed her hand and noticed a small tattoo near her ankle.

Time stopped for a few seconds.

Erskine was still fixed on the image, like he’d become lost. I knew how he felt, I thought to myself as I dragged my attention away from Rebecca’s leg. Rebecca was intriguing. There was something in her that I didn’t see in Lauren.

Erskine cleared his throat. ‘You know, we had her seventeenth birthday party here,’ he said. ‘There must have been about thirty people – it was a great night, wasn’t it Rebecca.’

He placed the photograph on the coffee table.

‘Well, of course,’ she said. ‘It’s what Cassandra wanted, wasn’t it!’

‘That’s right,’ Erskine smiled. ‘I’m glad she had a good time.’

She flicked her hand toward him. ‘Shush! The DJ was great too,’ she said.

Rebecca slipped the photograph from the coffee table with her fingers. ‘She’s a lovely girl – a real looker, don’t you think, Mr Carver?’ she said.

‘Uh-huh. She’s very nice. You’re very fortunate Larry,’ I said.

‘I suppose you find a lot of kids, hmm, how should I put it, from the wrong side of the tracks come your way. Would that be right, Mr Carver?’ Rebecca asked, as she twirled the photo between her fingers, and then placed it back on the coffee table.

‘Sometimes. A lot depends on their home life. But it looks like a pretty good home here. Tell me, what happened before she went missing? What was going on? It was about three weeks ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Was it?’ Rebecca said. Her voice stilted as her eyes darted past me to Erskine.

She started to scratch at her arms, and then mumbled something about mosquitoes at that house. Erskine leaned forward, grabbed the photograph, and then slumped back in his chair.

‘I’ve been going over that question every day, and I come to the same answer – I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Cassandra came home from uni on the Friday afternoon. I remember sometime later she and Simon had a bit of dust-up over his computer. I think she wanted to check her emails or something. He wouldn’t let her. He gets a bit funny about his stuff – I don’t know – must be a teenage thing. Anyway, she’d seemed a bit upset, but I didn’t think too much of it. Then, later after dinner, she went out with 54 her friends. We had breakfast the next morning. Everything seemed fine. I went to the office. I was gone all day. That was the last time I saw her.’

‘So that was the last time you all saw her – at breakfast on the Saturday morning?’ I asked, as I grabbed a small notebook from my jacket pocket and scribbled a note.

‘Does that make much difference?’, Erskine asked.

‘Hmm, it might… a bit hard to tell at this point,’ I said, stuffing the notebook back in my pocket.

Rebecca glanced at Erskine, and then turned to me, combing her fingers through her hair. ‘I was in and out of the office all day,’ she said. ‘Cassandra called to say she wouldn’t be home for lunch.’

Erskine eyeballed her. ‘I didn’t know that!’ he said, surprised. ‘You didn’t tell me she’d called.’

The room simmered as the pair discussed why Rebecca hadn’t told Erskine that his daughter had called the day she went missing. She explained how work had got in the way. She apologised before the temperature rose any further.

An uncomfortable silence hung as Rebecca glanced at the photograph. She then gently took it from Larry’s hand, and lightly tossed it toward a lamp table, next to where I sat. It hit the side of the table and landed on the floor. On the table was a gold- framed photo of Rebecca. It was black and white – she was dolled-up with a thigh-high slit in her satin dress like some 50s film star. She played the glamour shots well.

I slid out of my chair and scooped up Cassandra’s photograph from the floor. Then I had a closer look at the tattoo on Rebecca’s ankle – it looked like a crow. Then I sat back in my seat, and slid the photograph into my jacket pocket. Rebecca eyeballed me and smiled. I felt a light breeze from the fan, but the temperature hadn’t dropped. I started to sweat.

I couldn’t sit around any longer, the heat was becoming intense, and I got up. ‘Mind if I take a look around?’

‘Sure, I’ll show you around the place,’ Erskine said.

‘There’s nothing here, though,’ Rebecca said lightly.

I placed my empty glass next to a gold-framed photograph of Erskine, Rebecca, Cassandra and Simon. Simon looked out of place. He didn’t look like his sister, his old man or his mother. I glanced at my watch: 5.30PM.

Rebecca stood and strolled into the kitchen. ‘Would you like to stay for dinner, Mr Carver?’ Rebecca called out.

‘No. Thanks,’ I called back.

‘Are you driving back to Geelong?’ she asked.

I followed her into the kitchen. ‘No, I’m staying at a motel in town. It’s the one just as you come into Lorne.’

‘Yeah, I know the one,’ she said.

Two down lights brightened the dull-steel finish of the fridge, dishwasher and stove. The space was framed by hardwood cupboards and shelves, and lined with pots, crockery, cereal packets and varieties of glass jars. It would’ve cost a small fortune.

Rebecca slightly turned her face, knowing I’d been watching her as she stroked her neck, and then took a sip of a freshly made drink. A slither of her white wine slid down her chin and throat.

‘Are you sure you won’t stay, Mr Carver,’ she said, wiping her chin.

I struggled for words. I stood there with a dopey grin spread across my face, like an idiot waiting for a rainbow. ‘Um, no, I’m good,’ I said, as Erskine stood beside me playing with his watch. ‘But, thanks anyway. I’ll take that look round.’

‘Okay, but there’s nothing here of any interest,’ she said.

Erskine then led me back through the lounge room and into a dark hallway. I fronted a door. It was unlocked.

‘This is my study,’ he said. ‘What doesn’t get done in the office gets done here, eh.’

We entered.

‘It’s a bit messy, files and all that,’ he said. ‘Cassy’s room is upstairs. What’re you looking for exactly, mate?’

‘I don’t know, yet. I guess something to indicate why Cassandra left. Sometimes you find things you don’t expect.’

He was right, the room was a mess – council drawings, house plans, and contracts scattered over the desk. Framed photographs hung on the wall. Erskine moved so quickly he almost fell into the room, picking up papers off the floor at a rate of knots.

He pinched a business card from a small pile on his desk and handed it to me. ‘Please take my card, in case you need to call me for anything,’ he said, grinning. ‘And, if you’re looking for a property to buy – I’ll get you the best bloody deal in town.’

For an estate agent catering for the Paris-end of town, he sounded a bit rough. Maybe that was his charm – a solid, local character who could get a good deal and knew how to charm his way into some sea-changer’s cheque book.

In the fading light, his teeth looked grey and his tanned skin appeared off- white.

‘I’ll leave you to it, Mr Carver,’ he said, then stepped out the door.

‘Just one thing – have Lauren’s things been collected from her dorm room at uni, or are they still there?’

Erskine pressed his thumb and forefinger into his temples as his face grimaced. ‘Oh, Anne deals with all that stuff,’ he said. ‘I just write the cheques. You’re best to speak to Anne about all that. Sorry mate. I’ll wait for you out here.’

Photographs showed Erskine with some big fella in a cream-coloured linen suit and a Panama hat shaking hands. A set of drawers revealed nothing of any use – real estate brochures for houses and apartments along the coast. A glossy business card was pinned on the wall. The Deakin University emblem was embossed on the front. I prised the card from the wall and flipped it over. It read: Cassandra, Barton College, Evatt Units, and the phone number.

The card slid easily into my jacket pocket as I left the room. I wondered why he wouldn’t know if things had been collected from his daughter’s dorm room? Maybe Anne hadn’t told him the stuff had been taken. Maybe the girl and her parents weren’t as close as they’d made out.

Past the study was a bathroom, then the laundry. The bathroom offered nothing out of the ordinary. A leafy plant sat in a brass container on the window ledge above a black marble spa bath. The bath matched the bowl along with gold taps. A black-tiled shower had the same fittings. Erskine re-joined me and we left and found the staircase. The stairs led us to another dark hallway, then to a series of rooms before more stairs ran back down to the lounge room. The first door was open – a guest bedroom. Dull light streamed from the open drapes over quaint furnishings and a bowl of pot-pourri on the bedside drawers. The next door was closed. Light appeared under it. I guessed it was another bathroom. A couple of steps further was another bedroom. The door was half-way open. The room was dark, all but for a shard of light from a crack in the drapes. It was the master bedroom. Across the passage, a slight tinny sound came from another room. The door was jammed. Erskine shoved it open. Simon sat at his desk, hunched over his laptop, earphones wedged in his ears. He turned and jumped a little as he looked at me.

‘Shit, what’re you doing?’ he said.

‘Mate, Mr Carver, just wants to have a look around,’ he said.

Simon lowered the laptop lid, and then leaned on it.

‘Doing homework?’ I said, slowly stepping inside.

‘I’ll leave you here if that’s alright Mr Carver,’ Erskine said. ‘You know the way back down.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘Err, yeah, psychology homework.’ Simon said, rolling his eyes.

‘Right.’

I scanned the room – wall posters, magazines. An electric guitar and amp stood in the corner of the room next to the single bed.

‘Play much?’ I said, gesturing toward the instrument.

‘Not as much as I’d like,’ he said. ‘I can’t take it to College. I’ve got an acoustic there and practice on that. I play at College.’

‘Yeah? What’re you into – rock, pop, that sort of stuff?’

Simon remained hunched over the computer, and then shifted in his seat. He seemed uncomfortable with someone in his room.

‘Um, yeah, I like Queens of the Stone Age and stuff – that sort of thing,’ he said.

‘Yeah?’

‘I suppose I should ask you the same question. So, what are you into?’

‘You wouldn’t like my type of music – jazz, blues mainly.’

‘Jazz? That stuff’s for wankers and gays. You must be gay.’

‘Gay? Seriously, dressed like this? I can’t afford a decent haircut let alone Barbara Streisand tickets.’

‘Ha, ha well you must be a wanker then,’ he smirked, as he slid out of his chair.

He pissed me off. I wanted to smack in the mouth but his cream bun face would probably explode on the back of my hand.

He walked over to the door and started to close it with me still in the doorway.

‘Problem?’ I said.

‘Thanks for the chat, but I’ve got this stuff to do,’ he said. ‘It’s due Monday and I’m behind.’

‘Look, I’m trying to help find your sister.’

His wardrobe door was ajar with a Cats scarf draped over it.

‘Hey, a Geelong supporter!’ I said. ‘Do you reckon they’ll win the flag this year? They’re playing pretty well.’

Simon glanced past the scarf toward the window. ‘She’s not my sister,’ he said.

‘What? What’re you talking about?’

‘She’s not my sister, in the proper sense.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, you’re the detective – work it out!’

I peered at him for a second then glanced at the scarf. ‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘Notice that I don’t look like Dad, Mum or Cassandra,’ he said.

‘I take it you’re not Rebecca’s boy?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’ I realised what he’d meant. I didn’t need to say it.

‘So you reckon they’re going to win or not?’ I said.

Simon glanced at the scarf.

‘Fuck, I just remembered,’ he said. ‘I’ve got fifty bucks on that game – shit, they better win. Do you reckon they’ll win?’

‘Yeah, probably,’ I said as I left the room.

The next room was another bedroom. My hand pushed the door open – it was Cassandra’s. It was clean, tidy. A gold-framed photograph of Cassandra, Simon, Larry and Anne was placed on the bedside drawers, next to a double bed. I opened the frame, removed the photo and flipped it over – nothing. I slid it back into the frame and placed it on the drawer. The drawers revealed underwear, socks, hosiery. On the other side of the room, a dressing table featured a music box with a tiny ballerina. But what jewellery it contained seemed gone – a few cheap looking rings scattered across two compartments and a third section suspiciously empty.

The room seemed like the cops had been here. Everything was placed as you’d expect it to be. Suddenly, I got the sense I was being watched again. I turned but found no one there. The door was as I’d left it. I checked under the bed, nothing – just shadows. The room felt cold, like death had taken hold.

A desk in the corner of the room offered little. A Rubik’s cube had been placed on a bunch of university assignments with teacher’s comments written across the top. The papers revealed low grades, not good enough to pass a nursing degree. The three drawers held just stationery. My feet then led me into the hallway, towards the stairs to the lounge room.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Carver?’ Rebecca asked.

I turned. She was leaning against the stair rails.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked again, and then flicked her nose with the back of her hand and sniffed.

She flicked her nose again. Either she had a cold, or was on coke.

‘Find anything?’ she said.

‘No.’

Rebecca then led me down the stairs to the lounge room. Her steps quickened, before she waited for me at the bottom. Suddenly, a sense of vertigo gripped me. I thought I heard a voice behind me, but when I turned to look back, there was no one there and the dizziness became worse. My sweaty hand gripped the wire railing and I hoped my legs wouldn’t fall. Rebecca looked at me as my feet gingerly took each step down.

‘Are you all right? You looked a bit wobbly up there,’ she said.

‘I guess the heat and the beer has gone to my head,’ I lied.

Eventually I found my legs. We moved back into the lounge room. The drapes had been drawn across the windows and lamps switched on. I felt hungry. Rebecca lifted a glass of white to her lips.

‘So, nothing there, Mr Carver?’ she said.

‘No. I‘m afraid not.’

‘I told you there was nothing here, didn’t I?’

‘You did. Well, I better go. Actually, tell me why Lawrence didn’t join Anne in coming to my office yesterday?’ 61

Rebecca moved closer to me, and gently clutched my elbow. A coy smile slid across her face. ‘Oh, he needs to be at his office, you know making sure things are running as they should,’ she said. ‘Plus, I like him to be with me, not with poor Anne. Anyway, Mr Carver, are you sure you won’t stay for dinner? Larry’s not feeling well and Simon, well who knows what he’s doing. I’ll be all by myself.’

Her choice of words was interesting, the bitchy tone, but little else.

‘No, but thanks anyway.’

Rebecca followed me to the front door, opened it and I stepped outside. ‘Well, it’s up to you, but the offer’s there if you change your mind,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you might like to drop by later for a nightcap’.

The humidity had dropped, but the cicadas were still making a racket. I glanced at the car and then back at her.

‘Hmm, maybe,’ I said.

She smiled then stepped back inside. The front door closed behind me as I walked across the street to the car. I got in, started the engine and glanced back toward to the large windows. Suddenly, the drapes moved.

CHAPTER 7

After a restless night, I paid a visit to the Deakin University residence where Cassandra stayed. I was dressed, on my second cup of coffee and third smoke, and could still only guess at reasons why the girl was missing. There was no message left by the girl, no cry for help. But I still thought her disappearance was just like others had been – kids’d take-off for a while, and then come back with their tail between their legs. Or the cops would turn up and knock on the parent’s door. Anytime the cops knocked on the door, it wasn’t good news.

I lifted the Deakin business card from my jacket pocket and dialled the number, then flicked the curtain to one side of the window and peered out. Last night’s cloud had thickened before it rained. The ground was wet, puddles were overflowing, and the outlook appeared grey. The dial tone vibrated in my ear before I was put through to the registrar. I told her who I was, who I was working for. I told her that I needed to see Cassandra’s dorm to help with the case. She said she didn’t feel comfortable with the cops nosing around, let alone some guy claiming to be a PI working for a missing girl’s mother. Her voice trembled a little over the phone, saying my presence may cause trouble and get the students further agitated about what had happened. I left the conversation, and thanked her for her time. I didn’t wanna make any trouble for her but I still needed to see in Cassandra’s room.

I gave the matter some thought before I came up with another idea. I didn’t wanna be fobbed-off, so after an hour so I called again.

This time I asked to be put through to the registrar... as Larry Erskine. I just hoped it’d work.

‘Hello Mr Erskine, this is Marieke Day – the residence registrar,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘I understand you would like to see Cassandra’s room – yes, of course. As I’m sure you’re aware, the police checked out her room a few weeks back. I was with them as they searched through her things. Interestingly, a gentleman rang only an hour or so ago, claiming to be a private investigator looking into Cassandra’s whereabouts; he said his name was Carver?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, doing my best to sound like Erskine. ‘Yeah, that’d be him, but he’s down here in Lorne. I only saw him this morning. Do you want me to get him to give you call or something?’

‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary, Mr Erskine. I just wasn’t sure–’

‘No worries, love. Look, I don’t suppose you know if the cops, ah, I mean the police took anything from Cassandra’s room that you know of?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘They just had a look around the room, took notes and asked me and some students who were here at the time some questions.’

‘Okay, right-o love.’

‘We’re so sorry to hear. It must be dreadful.’

‘Yeah, it’s been dreadful, just bloody dreadful,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I hadn’t called earlier, but well, you know how it is.’

The woman said she had a nine-thirty meeting expected to last an hour or so, after which she was free to show me round. I told her I’d be there at about eleven.

I left my motel about a half hour later when the cup of coffee I’d been drinking ran dry. As I swung the car out of the parking lot, I spotted that damned letter from my realtor tucked into the console. Seeing it brought the worry back. I couldn’t afford to pay any more rent, but I didn’t have the time to look for another flat. I was running out of time. My hands pushed into the steering wheel but I only felt pain.

By the time I’d reached Waurn Ponds, on Geelong’s south-western outskirts, the sky had brightened. The sun had burnt off the cloud and the temperature began to climb. The grey concrete buildings of the university residence looked as dull as dishwater on a cold day. The campus sat on a large site amongst a mixed bag of middle-class homes– the aspirational voters in three-bedroom brick veneer homes, the first-home buyer market of small front yards and wide driveways, as well as well- heeled hobby farmers.

The residences’ administration office looked cold, with a render of drab, grey concrete. I told a woman at the reception that the registrar was expecting me, Larry Erskine. She asked me to wait. She picked up the phone, dialled a four-digit number,

64 left a message then hung up. Posters of upcoming concerts, free barbecues and beer nights were plastered over the walls. Being Friday, I figured few students would be around. A couple of people peered at me as they walked past. By the colour of their hair and pale features, they were probably IT students or ‘graduates from the Marilyn Manson School of Goth’. Either way they looked like death.

‘Hello, I’m Marieke Day, how do you do?’ a voice approached.

The woman’s dress sense matched her style of speech– casual, yet neat in a maroon blouse, brown corduroy skirt and matching suede shoes.

‘G’day, Larry Erskine, we spoke on the phone,’ I said, sticking out my hand.

She smiled and we shook hands.

‘You may have noticed a couple of our students – they’re amongst our leading IT research students,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t tell you what they’re studying, it’s well beyond me I’m afraid.’

‘No kidding.’

‘Please, this way Mr Erskine, I’ll show you to Cassandra’s room.’

Ms Day led me down a corridor, past students’ rooms, a kitchen, and laundry, before we took a left and headed down another corridor past bathrooms and more students’ rooms. Music, and the occasional sound of typing, filtered through the walls as we walked until we reached a white door. She grabbed a key from her pocket and slid it into the key hole, then opened the door. The room appeared like Cassandra’s bedroom at home, but with grey concrete walls and an aluminium window frame. The room had a stale, musky smell.

She turned and handed me the key. ‘Please, take as long you need,’ she said. ‘I have another meeting, so just leave the key at the office when you’re done.’

‘No worries, love,’ I said, and stepped into the room.

The woman hung in the doorway like a nun at church, waiting. ‘Oh, it just occurred to me,’ she said. ‘Your wife, sorry I’ve forgotten her name–’

‘My wife?’

‘Yes, sorry, I should have said earlier. Um, your wife was here just the other day–’

‘Really. Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I asked her to sign the visitors’ book when she arrived. It’s on the counter at the office.’

My head slowly shook. ‘Hmm, that’s strange; she didn’t say she was coming here. Though I’m not surprised, she must’ve picked up Cassy’s clothes and so on.’

‘Um, I don’t recall her taking any clothes; she took Cassandra’s computer. She arrived with a guy called um... Michael, I think his name was. She said he was Cassandra’s boyfriend.’

‘What? Oh yeah. Right, well I didn’t see the visitors’ book.’

‘Oh? It’s meant to be on the counter. I’ll make sure it’s there for you to look through, and sign before you leave.’

‘Yeah, no worries.’

‘Okay, well if there’s anything else. It was nice to have met you. Please pass on my condolences to your wife and family.’

‘Condolences? Cassandra’s not dead, as far as we know.’

‘God! I am so sorry. I didn’t mean–’ She placed her hand over her mouth, embarrassed.

‘It’s okay, I know what you mean.’

We shook hands and she went on her way.

So Erskine’s wife and the girl’s boyfriend were here. What’s going on? Which wife – Anne or Rebecca, and who the hell was Michael?

I went to the window and peeled back the blinds. It’d make sense if Anne had been here, but she’d take Cassandra’s clothes and personal effects, and perhaps not worry about the computer. She’d told me that Cassandra didn’t have a boyfriend. Maybe she’d lied, but why would she? If it was Rebecca, why would she be here? She didn’t seem the type to get involved in the girl’s study scene. It didn’t make sense. 66

A couple of seconds passed, before I peeked round the doorframe and down the corridor – no one was there. Muffled music reverberated from behind the door opposite. I left the door ajar and started to poke around. A chipped MDF desk sat next to a single bed, under which a couple of music posters were Blu-Tacked to the wall. On the desk sat a faded desk lamp. Blank copy paper littered the floor. Under the desk, a wastepaper bin was empty, except for what looked like a ripped-up postcard, chocolate bar wrappings and assorted torn pieces of paper strewn on the carpet. I snatched the postcard pieces and tentatively placed them together. It read: Greetings from Lorne, with a colour shot of what seemed like a family frolicking on the beach. The other side was blank. I slid the pieces in my pocket.

On the other side of the room sat a chest of drawers and wardrobe. The robe doors revealed Cassandra’s clothes. Some were on the floor in a small pile. The hat shelf offered nothing.

Whatever had been there was gone.

The chest of drawers revealed more clothes, underwear and the like. I’d expected to find a diary or something similar, but came across nothing. The second last drawer was jammed tight. I yanked it ’til it flew open, whacking myself in the chest. It was empty. Then I flipped it over. A small plastic case was taped to the bottom of the drawer. I slid a penknife out from my jacket pocket and sliced the tape, and then ripped the case off the drawer.

Suddenly, the door opposite opened. I hurriedly opened the case – it revealed a SIM card. The door opposite then closed.

Shit!

I slid the SIM card back in the case, grabbed the pocketknife, stuffed it in my pocket, then picked up the drawer and shoved it back in the chest. A girl’s voice murmured in the corridor. I got to my feet.

‘Candy, is that you?’ she said, and lightly tapped on the door.

‘Hello,’ I said, sliding the SIM card case into my pocket.

The girl opened the door.

‘Ahh…whatch’ya doing in Candy’s room?’ she said.

A slight grin smeared my face. ‘Oh, it’s okay, I’m her Dad.’

‘She doesn’t look like you,’ she said, peering around the room.

‘No, fortunately she looks like her mother.’

The girl gave me a slight smile. ‘So whatch’ya doing?’

‘Cassandra’s Mum wanted some things brought back home – you know clothes, that sort of thing. Say, why do you call Cassandra, Candy?’

The girl slinked into the room, leaving little room for the two of us between the bed, the desk and chest of drawers. She was a little taller than me in her leopard-print heeled slippers. Her dark hair was cut in a bob, with a fringe that stuck to her forehead. She wore a black and white striped t-shirt, black jeans, and a ring in her right nostril. Her lips were a deep shade of purple, and she had studs in both her ears.

‘That’s what her boyfriend calls her,’ she said.

‘Do you mean, Michael?’

‘Michael?’

‘Yeah, Michael.’

She eyeballed me, and then moved around the room looking at posters. She paused at the chest of drawers.

‘You’re not her old man,’ she said, as she folded her arms. ‘I’ve seen him in a photo. Who the fuck are you? What d’ya want? I’m going to call the police.’

She went to move past me, before I grabbed her arm. ‘Calm down. All right, I’m not her old man. I’m a private detective hired by her mother.’

I released my grip on her arm, and then showed her my Private Inquiry agent licence.

‘What?’

‘Candy, as you call her, has been missing for at least three weeks. Her family’s shitting bricks wondering where she is. So, if you know anything…’

The girl sat on edge of the bed and lifted her hands to her face. Tears streamed from her eyes, ruining her mascara.

‘We were told a couple of weeks ago by the uni staff that something was wrong,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘They didn’t say what was happening. We didn’t really know what to make of it. I mean, it’s one of those things that happen to other people, not people you know. We’ve since put up a Facebook page and Twitter account with Candy’s, I mean Cassandra’s photo and name. We’re asking for information. Have you seen it?’

I sat on the swivel chair next to the desk. ‘Yeah, I noticed it on Facebook; it has quite the following. I’ll have to check it out on my Twitter account. Did you know her very well? What’s your name?’

‘Mel,’ she said.

‘Okay, Mel, my name’s Carver. So, did you know her very well?’

Mel leaned back on the bed, wrenched out a squashed soft pack of smokes and a Bic lighter from her jeans. She straightened the mangled cigarette and burnt the end.

‘I thought I did,’ she said, as she blew smoke between her lips. ‘We had a thing for a while – I don’t know – a couple of weeks I suppose.’

‘You were an item, then?’

‘You’re quick for a dick!’

‘Was anybody else aware of that? How long ago was this?’

‘I met her mum once when she was here. I didn’t like her – a real toff, you know, a posh bitch. I haven’t met her dad, or her brother.’

‘So how long ago were you together?’

She took a drag and piped the smoke out her nose, then wiped it with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t know, a month or so ago I suppose,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she was really into girl-on-girl stuff much. It sort of ended when her boyfriend came along.’

‘This was Michael?’

‘Yeah, he seemed okay. But I don’t know – there was something about the two of them that didn’t seem right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. It was like they hadn’t hooked-up properly or something, like they didn’t really know each other.’

‘Uh-huh. Alright, is there anything else you can tell me?’

Mel got up and wandered over to the window, opened it, then took another drag before pushing the flywire open and hurling the smouldering cigarette outside. She peered towards the door. ‘They don’t like us smoking inside,’ she said.

‘Huh, nobody does these days. So, tell me about Cassandra.’

Mel moved around little, and then sat upright on the bed. ‘I don’t know, it’s pretty fuckin’ weird if you ask me,’ she said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well one day, Candy, I mean Cassandra, was dropped off by her step-mum, um Rebecca, I think her name is.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, Cassandra was in her room and I went in to see her. When Rebecca came back with Cassandra’s clothes bag, she saw us kiss. We were really embarrassed. I don’t know. Anyway, couple of minutes later, I went outside for a smoke. I think Cassandra was still in her room, probably too embarrassed to come out. So, anyway, I’m just standing there having a cig and then Rebecca comes up to me–’

‘What was she like – pissed off, disappointed – what?’

‘Nah, she was like – excited. I told you, it was fucking weird. She said something about how young people should be able to explore themselves more or something like that, and that she liked to watch.’

‘Wha? I don’t think so. Sounds like you’re pulling my chain.’

‘I’m not making it up; that’s what she said. She asked me if I wanted to come down to Lorne. She said there was a good party scene down there that I might like.’ 70

‘What did you do? Did you go?’

‘No. I wasn’t sure what was going on with Cassandra, so I didn’t feel comfortable going with her. So I didn’t bother. Anyway, I had to study.’

She stood and walked past me towards the door.

‘What’re you studying?’ I said, glancing past her toward the door.

‘Law,’ she said.

A short grin slid across my face. ‘Course you are. I don’t know, it still sounds like bullshit to me.’

‘Look, I realise I may not look like a lawyer, but I take the law seriously,’ she said. ‘If someone is in some sort of trouble I want to help. It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?’

The girl stepped into the hallway; I followed and closed the door behind me. She sounded like she had a level head on her shoulders, but her story didn’t gel. Unless she was in the closet, why would Rebecca be interested in young women?

Back at the reception I found the visitors’ book. The book was no leather- bound ledger, just a tatty exercise book. A couple of pages had been ripped out. But scouring through I noticed a messy scrawl dated January 20 something under a Mrs Erskine. There was no signature for Michael. I signed the book with a squiggle that made a scribble look good.

The drive back to Lorne brought with it the idea that Rebecca maybe liked things a little kinky, but the image didn’t seem to fit with being married to old Larry Erskine.

CHAPTER 8

Once in Lorne, I rolled past the motel and into town. The aroma of eucalyptus and sea air filled the car. The temperature had risen. By the time I picked up a bottle of red from a drive-through bottle-shop, I needed a towel. Lauren was due to arrive at my motel around seven o’clock. I needed a shower and change of clothes. For dinner, she’d booked a place I didn’t know, somewhere she used to go with her friends.

As I edged the front of my car out of the drive-through bottle-shop and into the street, I noticed a couple of police cars were parked against the curb, opposite a backpacker hostel. The building sat on the corner of the main drag and a road that disappeared up a hill surrounded by houses that overlooked the bay.

I swung into a spot behind the police car. A couple of uniform cops had strolled out the front doors and stood under a window of the hostel. Onlookers had gathered near the doorway before a couple more cops came out and told them to move on.

‘Move along, please,’ one cop said. He stood with his fat hands straddling his gun belt, his starched dark blue shirt stretched over his belly. His face appeared sunburnt under his blue cap. He placed his hand on his gun belt and waved off the small crowd of tourists and teenagers. The crowd was soon dispersed.

I drove back to my motel. The view from my room took in some of Louttit Bay and the glow of neon along the foreshore. The lights were inviting, but there was a sense of darkness beyond the blue-tinged night I couldn’t understand. I didn’t like it.

An hour or so passed reading the newspapers for anything new about the missing girl since seeing the cops outside the backpacker hostel, but the tabloids revealed nothing of any worth. My phone buzzed with a message. I recognised the number of a journo I knew at the Addy. The message read that a girl had been found in a hostel room, suspected overdose. I read it again. I didn’t think it’d have anything to do with Cassandra being missing, but it might be worth a look anyway. I figured I had enough time to head back to the hostel before Lauren arrived.

It’d started to rain as I drove back through town to the hostel. Fat spats hit the windscreen as I parked on the other side of the road and killed the engine. A small

72 group of twenty-somethings wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers milled outside under the tarpaulin of the alfresco area. They drank Heineken and ate pizza.

Rain spattered onto the windscreen as I peered along Mountjoy Parade. I wound down the window a little and rolled a smoke. Now there wasn’t a cop in sight.

A moment later, I was in the hostel foyer shaking the wet off my clothes and shoes. The place had the acrid smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. The joint was down market, for backpackers on a real-low budget. A couple of twenty- somethings, geared with packs and other accoutrements, were set to leave as they scanned a rack of tourist brochures, scraping the torn lino as they meandered around.

A fella behind a counter sat and glanced at a computer monitor. Behind him, a portable television played music videos with music I didn’t recognise. Next to the counter sat a long leather couch, in front of which stood a coffee table. On the other side of the room sat a dirty-green pool table, near which stood a small of people talking about the weather and the local surf conditions, and a bar where a couple of girls were propped-up sipping dry drinks with umbrellas. Despite the comings and goings, the place felt empty.

I approached the fella behind the counter. ‘Hi, you gotta room available?’ I asked.

His eyes veered slowly away from the screen toward me.

‘Err, yeah, hi, how’ya going mate,’ he said, with a lazy smile. ‘A room? Hold on.’

His tousled brown hair was as long as his face. He was unshaven, wore a ring in his right nostril and a white hoop in his left ear, a black t-shirt and jeans.

‘Err, okay man, well,’ he said, as he studied the screen. ‘Well, we’ve just got one that’s recently become available. But it’s being cleaned at the moment.’

‘Okay, sounds good.’

‘Yeah, cool,’ he said. ‘We provide all the bedding, towels. The room’s upstairs, but it’s a share bathroom. There are three other rooms on the floor, and as far as I

73 know, the occupants of two are away – probably down at the Twelve Apostles. That’s where all the touros go.’

‘I see the cops were here earlier, what was go with that?’

‘Shit man, I don’t know! I just cover the night shift. All I know is that that room’s not available – the door’s covered in police tape. I tell ya it looks like something from CSI or something, you know! My boss was here then. All he said was that one of the guests had Od’d; the ambos and the cops were called and that was about it.’

‘That’s a shame.’

He leaned in. ‘Yeah.’

A kid who’d overdosed makes a crime scene, by accidental death or not. But I wanted to know if he knew anything more the room’s former occupant.

‘So a tourist I suppose, not a local?’ I said, grabbing a brochure from the bench. ‘Any idea where the deceased was from? Or, how long the person was here?

‘Fuck man, what’re you, a cop? Shit! I thought you were alright.’

He moved away and started to watch the other guests for a reaction.

‘No, I’m no copper. Just curious – I’m just one of those curious types.

‘Hahaha, man you know what they say about curiosity and cats,’ he said.

‘So, I’ve been told.’

‘Um, yeah, she was a tourist – Swedish or Swiss, something like that. She’d been here maybe a week or two. She seemed pretty cool. I didn’t know she was a user. I thought she just liked a drink and good time like everybody else.’

‘So, you’d seen her then?’

‘Oh yeah, once in a while.’

‘How old do you reckon she was?’

‘Ah mate, look I see lots of people around here... comes with the job, but I’d say she’d been about... I don’t twenty or so? Why?’

‘Just wondering. As I said, curious.’

I took a couple of steps back. ‘Mind if I take a look at the room – the one being cleaned, before I pay?’ I said.

‘Sure, no worries! The cleaner has the key so she’ll bring it back here when she’s done and you can pay then if you like?’

‘Sure.’

Above the door a sign read: Proprietor R. Braithwaite.

Hey, what’s the owner’s name?’

‘Yeah, Richard Braithwaite is his name. But that sign’s a bit old. As a far as I know he no longer owns the place, or he might have some stake in it, but I’m pretty sure it’s changed hands – at least that’s what I hear around town. Huh, you’d think they’d’ve changed the sign by now… I mean duh, it was like over a year ago or something. But who knows what goings on in this town, not me that’s for sure.’ He laughed.

I gave him a small nod.

The name Richard Braithwaite didn’t ring any bells.

‘No worries. I’ll grab a drink at the bar, before I check the room, if that’s all right?’

‘Yeah, no dramas! Joanne will fix you up.’

‘Good.’

Joanne appeared pleasant enough as I ordered a beer. Her light brown hair, tied in pigtails, matched her hazel eyes as her orange t-shirt loosely straddled her jeans. But there was a tension between her and the fella behind the counter. He looked over at her, switched the channel on the TV and then sat back in his chair. Behind the bar, Joanne cleaned glasses and watched him as he sat watching the box behind the counter. She’d smile at me occasionally as courtesy, but offered little else.

The Heineken remained at the bar as I made my way upstairs. The fella was still watching TV, while Joanne served a couple of customers. The wooden stairs led

75 me up to a narrow, dimly lit corridor, then past the shared bathroom and a couple of closed doors. The door to the available room was open, with the cleaner now vacuuming and taking freshly laundered towels from a trolley into the room. Then I reached another door. Yellow crime scene tape was plastered across it. I slipped the penknife from my pocket, sliced the police tape, and then grabbed my tools from inside my coat and picked the lock. About a minute later, the lock gave a cracking noise; I turned the handle and slowly entered the dark room. I knew the penalty for break and enter, let alone disturbing a crime scene. I didn’t care.

The room reeked of dirty clothes and worn lives. I snatched a small torch from my coat pocket and flicked it on. If the girl had Od’d, it looked like she’d done it with a tyre lever. Blood spatter had hit the floor and a wall. Specks had stuck to the faded yellow carpet like red paint. A thick glob had penetrated the fibres, stuck dry with strands of blonde hair. The bed had been made with fresh sheets. A bare light bulb hung above the bed. A couple of white towels were placed on the bottom corner of the double. A thin blind was drawn over the sash window. The noise from the street rose into the room – laughter, obnoxious voices dispersed with the hum of passing cars, like the drone of insects on a summer’s day. If anyone had heard anything, they probably weren’t listening.

A small bedside table had a desk lamp without a bulb. Next to it, sat a Gideons. I grabbed the green, plastic-coated bible and flicked pages with the torch wedged between my teeth. Suddenly, something fell from the book onto the floor. I grabbed it for a better look. It was a postcard. It read: Greetings from Lorne, with a family frolicking on the beach. The other side was blank, except for a series of numbers scribbled down. It was the same type of postcard found in Cassandra’s dorm. I scanned around the room as the postcard slipped easily into my jacket pocket, then closed the door behind me, and left. I felt sick wondering if Cassandra had met a similar fate.

When I arrived back at the motel, Lauren was standing next to her car. It was still humid and the smell of eucalyptus and sea-spray filled the air. I kissed her mouth and gently ran my hand down her lower back to feel the curves of her body. She looked good, wearing a figure-hugging black dress and pumps. I hoped for a pleasant evening.

‘Been waiting long?’ I said. 76

‘No, just arrived,’ she said.

‘That’s alright.’

‘How’re you going?’ she said.

‘I’ve just seen something I wish I hadn’t; somewhere I don’t want to go back. You don’t want to know, it’ll only upset you. Now, tell me about what you’ve been doing. C’mon, take my mind away from this place. I’ve got a bottle of red – merlot. What’d you reckon we have to eat? Are you hungry?’

Lauren smiled, ‘Starving.’

I shoved open the door and she followed me inside and then placed the bottle on the bench and found a couple of wine glasses in a cupboard. She cracked the bottle, let the wine breathe for a few minutes, and then poured. Lauren took a sip. Her eyes had a smile I hadn’t seen for a while. It was the same smile she had while Bowman was alive. But Bowman was the farthest thing from my mind now right now.

I moved closer and kissed her lips again, then unbuttoned her grey-coloured blouse exposing her soft skin. She caressed my throat and chest, made her way down to my belt buckle, and unzipped my pants. My heart raced. My blood pressure climbed. Her breathing became heavy, her chest heaved in anticipation. She writhed out of her black pants. My hands urgently ran over her body as our lips locked. She pulled me with her backwards onto the bed. The queen-size bed quickly became dishevelled with pillows strewn across the beige carpet.

About half-an-hour later, we were showered and dressed. It didn’t take long before my thoughts became muddied, fraught with the case, and with Lauren.

She come out of the bathroom and fiddled about with her clothes and hair, then slipped on her shoes. She told me about her work, her colleagues and their lives. She told me what she’d watched on TV, the weather. It didn’t take long before I found that I was distracted wondering why Cassandra was still missing, and the contents of that room haunting my mind. She asked me when I’d be back in Geelong, when we could have a normal life together. I told her I didn’t know. I didn’t ask her about the sleeping pills, the Xanax. I’d wanted to a couple of days ago, but now I wasn’t so sure.

My thoughts kept drifting back to Cassandra and the conflicting stories about where she was last seen. Nothing made sense. And, that postcard. Why had she had the same postcard as the girl in the room? The investigation wasn’t going anywhere fast. I placed what I had on the bench – the SIM card, the postcard from the hostel, and the one found in Cassandra’s dorm that I’d taped together.

‘What’re you doing with these?’ Lauren enquired, peering at them.

‘That’s potential evidence,’ I said.

‘Oh, okay. C’mon mister detective, let’s go out for dinner.’

She grabbed her coat and strode to the door.

‘What’s the name of place we’re going to?’ I said, following her out the door.

‘Saporitalia,’ she said.

‘Great.’

We arrived and sat at the bar over a drink. Several people had walked in, before Lauren started chatting with a couple. They were old school friends and acted like it – all playing their parts and their rehearsed lines so well. She didn’t introduce me. Something inside me wanted to forget that she was from Lorne and part of the town’s old money scene as she kissed them hello. As she spoke, her voice and movements changed – she became elegant and aloof, like her friends. I felt them eye me down, before their eyes veered away. The couple soon departed for a table while we remained at the bar.

A few minutes later, another couple walked in. Lauren turned around and immediately greeted the pair, the same way she did with her former school friends. She then introduced me to them. It was Richard and Felicity. She said that they were friends of her parents. I realised I’d met them at Anne’s table when I arrived yesterday. She told them that I wasn’t a local, as if it wasn’t already obvious enough.

‘Oh yes, how are you?’ Richard said, as we briefly shook hands. ‘Richard Braithwaite. Any news concerning poor, Cassandra?’

I shook my head. Hold on, Richard Braithwaite?

‘Oh dear,’ Felicity said, placing her hand on her cheek. ‘We can only hope she is found soon.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

A waitress was about to show Lauren and I to a table before Lauren suggested that the Braithwaites join us. I nodded. They agreed. Good. I wanted to know about whether he still had any interest in the backpacker hostel.

We ordered more drinks and then a little later the meals arrived. I wanted to get Braithwaite comfortable first before questioning him.

‘So, I hear you own the local backpacker hostel?’ I said, before peering at the dessert menu. ‘The one down on William Street?’

‘Oh, why do you say that?’ Braithwaite asked.

‘A girl was found dead in there today–’

‘Frank!’ Lauren butted in. ‘Don’t bring your work to dinner.’

I ignored her.

‘Apparently she Od’d, but by the state of the room, I’d say it was something else.’

I felt Lauren’s heel jab my foot. I grimaced a little.

‘That’s terrible,’ said Braithwaite. ‘But I haven’t had anything to do with the hostel for some time, over a year in fact. It was sold long ago.’

‘I see.’ I wanted to keep digging but after Lauren’s needling, I realised the time and place wasn’t gonna work.

They then just smiled and started another topic of conversation that bored me. Now I just wanted them to piss off, to leave me, and us, alone. I didn’t want to know that they still played mid-week ladies tennis or had attended the latest Whiteley exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne.

I excused myself, went outside and rolled a smoke. Lauren remained inside – chatting, laughing, before she noticed me through the window. The humidity had died- off and so had my interest in dessert. 79

‘What’re you doing?’ Lauren asked, lightly touching my arm.

‘I can’t be bothered listening to the latte-set’s first world problems of not having enough money to holiday in Mauritius this year,’ I said, blowing smoke from my mouth.

‘Why are you being such a prick?’ she scowled. ‘They’re friends of my parents. What do you want me to do, be rude and ignore them? I hadn’t seen them in ages. Anyway, I’ve made plans to catch up with them tomorrow. You can join me if you like.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Lauren, I’m on a case. I’m not here to have bloody high-tea with friggin’ Richard and Felicity from the yacht club.’

The last drag burnt the back of my throat, before my hand dropped the smouldering cigarette on the ground. The heel of my shoe put it out of its misery.

Lauren led me back into the restaurant. ‘Try to be nice for a change, will you?’

‘Fine,’ I grunted.

The conversation went on to be discrete, polite. The only interruption came from waitresses, wanting to know if we wanted anything else. The place served decent food. Despite the conversation and the possibility of re-christening the bed, my mind remained on the case, wondering where Cassandra was, and what she might be doing if she was still alive.

It’d been four weeks now.

It wasn’t looking good. I’d read about similar cases across the state – kids going missing. It was often girls being reported in the media, especially if they were good looking. Others didn’t seem to get a look in.

With my head in the case and not the table’s conversation I needed to find out what Richard Braithwaite knew about the dead girl in hostel room, what was on that SIM card, and if it was of any use at all.

CHAPTER 9

The next morning, I woke and glanced across the bed looking for Lauren before my head suddenly reminded me of the amount of wine that I’d drunk last night. Outside, car doors opened and closed with a loud crunch. Voices emerged, and the aroma of breakfast dishes set for room service chinked and clattered along the footpath. Then, the courteous knock and call of ‘room service’ echoed from the next room’s door. All of it seemed intensely loud and none of it helped my hangover.

Lauren was in the shower. Her plans to catch-up with her friends looked like they were going to happen after all. I sat up and fumbled for my tobacco amongst my watch, mobile phone and lighter.

Sunlight slivered through a slit in the curtains onto the bed. The smoke hung from my lips as I grabbed my watch: 7.30AM. A moment later, Lauren stepped out of the bathroom followed by a trail of steam. She winked at me and smiled.

‘Hi,’ I said, and watched the steam lift off her naked body.

‘Sleep well?’ she asked, as she lifted a towel from a chair.

A smile slid across my face. ‘After last night, pretty good, but the wine’s given me a blinder.’ Then I lobbed a pillow toward her, making her drop the towel. ‘What about you?’

My arms and legs stretched under the sheets as I waited for an answer. I didn’t have long to wait.

‘Yeah, okay, though the pillow was a bit hard.’

I eventually got out of the bed and headed for the bathroom, and then turned on the shower.

Lauren rushed into the bathroom still wearing the towel. ‘This photo, who is it?’ she snarled, frantically waving the photograph of Cassandra in her hand. Her voice was jittery and high. ‘Did you take this photo? What’s her name? You haven’t been screwing her, have you?’

I opened the shower door, letting the heat out, and the cold in. ‘What’re you raving on about?’ I said, wiping water from my face. 81

‘Who’s this girl, Frank? You’re not fucking her, are you? You better hope not!’

Lauren then crunched the photograph in her hand.

‘What the hell are you talking about? That’s the girl who’s missing. It’s the case I’m working. I thought you’d seen her photo in the papers? Jesus!’

‘I, I just saw the–’

‘No, you just jumped to conclusions. C’mon, what’re you doing? Don’t be like this.’

She looked sheepishly at me. ‘Oh. I’m sorry, Frankie.’ She dropped the towel and stepped in under the water with me. I closed the shower door.

Twenty minutes later, I was showered, shaved and about to get dressed. Lauren was clothed in a long-sleeved t-shirt, jeans and sandshoes. My shirt and pants were crumpled and scattered on the floor. I got dressed into yesterday clothes, and then grabbed my watch and lighter from the bedside drawer. Lauren ordered room service – continental breakfast – and sat in a red, faux-leather tub chair. She was watching breakfast television. I found the remote and flicked the channel.

‘Hey, I was watching that,’ she said, and then got up and switched channels.

A smile smeared my face, ‘Ah, don’t turn it back, that show’s crap!’

Her eyes grew hard. ‘No, I was watching that, Frank! You were in the bathroom.’

Her mood had changed like the weather – hot last night, before falling to a morning chill.

A moment later there was a knock on the door – ‘room service’, a voice said. Lauren sprung from her chair and opened the door. A young man from the motel staff stood at the door with a tray of food, coffee, juice, and a newspaper. He walked in and placed the tray on the coffee table. I slid a five dollar note from my wallet and handed it to him. He left with a smile. I grabbed the paper and sat on the edge of the bed flicking pages. Lauren ate little – half a croissant and about a third of the juice. Her coffee wasn’t touched.

She then stood abruptly. ‘Ok, well I’m off to see Felicity now,’ she said. 82

I peered up at her with half a mouthful of croissant. ‘Felicity?’ I asked, chewing.

‘You know, I introduced you last night. You actually managed to have a conversation with her.’

Lauren then grabbed her keys and purse.

‘What?’

‘You know, Felicity and Richard, from last night – we met them at the bar before you went outside. You didn’t end up that drunk. He’s a federal politician, you know. I’m sure I mentioned it.’

‘Hmm, maybe you did.’ A politician who owns or part-owns or formerly owned a backpacker hostel where a girl was found dead – overdose or not – didn’t look good. ‘Politicians are like lawyers – ha, most of the pricks are lawyers, but with less scruples. Anyway, I didn’t like them.’

‘Don’t be like that. He’s nice if you’d met him properly, instead of sulking-off outside again for a cigarette.’

‘No, I just wasn’t interested. There’s a difference, maybe you haven’t worked that out.’

Whatever the temperature was outside had dropped ten degrees inside. If I was swimming, or at least floating in this relationship, I’d now found myself about to drown.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she said, as her hands straddled her hips.

‘Nothing, forget it – just jumping to conclusions, that’s all.’

‘Fuck off, Frank!’

‘What?’

‘Look at you,’ she said, as she took a couple of steps away.

‘What?’

‘You’re the detective, work it out!’

She shifted toward the door and turned the handle.

‘Maybe if you just take another one of your pills, Lauren, you’ll feel much better.’

‘What? How did you know I take–’

‘I’m a snoop remember. That’s what I do.’

My hand shook slightly as it placed the cup on the saucer. I wasn’t sure what she was going to do or say next, but I’d fucked up. Her face turned dark as she gave me a look that’d crack a wall. The conversation had taken a bad turn, and I didn’t like myself for letting it happen.

Lauren stepped outside. Sunlight and fresh air rushed into the room. She stood with the sun behind her – her face draped in shadow.

‘Let’s hope I don’t take too many pills, then,’ she said, and slammed the door, vibrating the adjacent window frame.

I slid off the bed and raced to the door, and then stepped outside. Lauren was already in her car. She’d started the engine.

‘What’re you doing?’ I called out.

Her face was cold as she ignored me, and then drove away.

The welcome mat felt warm underfoot. Guests in the adjoining rooms were placing their breakfast trays outside. They’d noticed the commotion. Then somebody’s granny, in a floral dressing gown and curlers, eyeballed me with a sympathetic grin. ‘Don’t worry son, she’ll be back,’ she said, with some American twang.

I turned to her. She stood about ten feet away. My face ran pale. My limbs felt like they’d shrunk in my suit. ‘I’m not so sure,’ I said, with a lame smile. Then I wandered back into the room, flicked the channel, and mumbled a bunch of unattractive short words.

My breakfast had turned cold. The SIM card I’d found in Cassandra’s dorm and the postcard from the room at the hostel were still on the bench. I got out the chair and grabbed the postcard. The numbers on the back didn’t mean anything to me. The front

84 read: Greetings from Lorne in gold lettering with a family playing about on the beach. I didn’t buy it.

Lauren’s leaving left me empty, and guilty. I scrambled for the tobacco and lighter. My tongue felt coarse as I licked the paper and placed it between my lips, and then flicked the Zippo incessantly before it caught and burnt the end of the cigarette. The lighter slipped into my pocket, before my hand joined it and started flicking the lid. My lungs breathed in a deep, toxic, burning cloud then exhaled most of it out through my dry lips.

I called Anne Erskine and told her that I’d be at her place in about half an hour. I had some more questions to ask her about Cassandra, but it took another cup of coffee before I felt ready to face her. I didn’t want to ask her anything about Richard Braithwaite; I wanted to dig a little first. I ran his name through Google. I read stuff about him being a Liberal politician - a backbencher for the seat of Corangamite, his office in Belmont. There were links to the party, pictures of him at sausage sizzles, and some of his parliamentary speeches on miscreant youth. A real bloody wowser. There was no mention of the Lorne backpacker hostel at all.

I took the number of his office, but before I dialled, I wanted to see what was on the SIM card – if anything. Then I flicked open the back of my mobile, slid-out the SIM and replaced it with the one from Cassandra’s dorm room. The screen lit up requiring a four-digit pass code. I had no idea what it could be. I tried a few of the standard combinations: 1234, 2468, Cassandra’s birthday, all the usual patterns. Nothing worked. Maybe someone in the family would know it. I checked my watch: ten o’clock. Braithwaite could wait. I was due to meet Anne.

I was late.

CHAPTER 10

Thick grey and white clouds began to hover over the town. They gradually filled the blue sky, raising the humidity and the chance of rain. I hated this weather, with its smothering wet thickness.

The drive from the motel along Mountjoy Parade into town led me past some of the commercial stretch, before I took a sharp left, up one of the steep roads to streets and houses that straddle the town. The sky had darkened as I approached the street. Eventually I stopped the car outside Anne’s address on Holliday Road. The SIM card was now in my jacket pocket, along with the postcards I’d found in the backpacker hostel and Cassandra’s dorm.

I killed the engine. Anne’s house was a split-level brick veneer. The two-storey joint next door enjoyed views over Louttit Bay. I guess she’d lucked out in the divorce.

I stepped out of the car. The air was sticky, thick with the aroma of wattle, eucalyptus and gardenias. The drone of insects that I now realised seemed to be typical of Lorne attacked my ears, before a lawnmower chugged to life in a bid to beat the rain. A gravel path led me up to a narrow wooden deck and the front door. It was chipped a little around the edges and handle. I knocked.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Anne and I exchanged pleasantries before she led me into the lounge room. A leather two-seater couch and two armchairs sat around a coffee table, along with a couple of standing lamps. A small dining table set for three sat awkwardly on the other side of the room. The house was clean, but lifeless. A scent of lavender wafted around the room, lifted by a light breeze from an open window in the dining room. Anne was dressed smartly – a silk scarf of ivory, bronze and red, mauve blouse, grey pants and black ankle boots. I wondered if she’d smell the booze on my clothes, and if she’d say anything.

The room was bright with a palette of soft, plush furnishings along with pieces of bone china and crystal on the mantle.

‘You have a nice collection,’ I said, gesturing toward the mantle.

Anne cupped her hands. ‘Yes, I picked them up at some galleries in Geelong,’ she said, smiling. ‘Have you any news on my daughter yet, Mr Carver?’ 86

I stood with my hands in pockets like I waiting for a bus. ‘No, but I’m working on it.’

Her words had hit me like a blunt axe, but her question was reasonable enough. ‘Actually–’ I said, stroking my chin. ‘Do you mind if I take a look around – there might be something that could help the investigation.’

‘No, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what you would be looking for, but please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Do you collect anything, Mr Carver?’ Anne said, as I was about to take a look around.

‘I have a reasonable jazz and blues record collection – does that count?’

She rolled her eyes and turned away. ‘May I offer you a drink, Mr Carver, a tea or coffee, perhaps? If you don’t mind me saying... you look like you could do with one, late night?’

I cleared my throat. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Well, do you mind if I make myself one?’

‘Not at all.’

She smiled and then walked into the kitchen. I left the lounge room and wandered into a corridor which seemed to lead to three bedrooms, a bathroom, laundry, and from there into a small courtyard and garden. I peeked into the bedrooms and bathroom. They offered little of any use, just small containers of dried flowers, clothes, clean linen and towels. The courtyard led to a door into the garage. Anne’s car was inside – a newish model Mazda. The car was locked. I came back inside before I wound up again in the lounge room.

Anne returned with a plunger of coffee and a tray of cups, and small containers of sugar and milk. She placed the tray on the coffee table. She then sat on the couch and crossed her legs. I sat opposite in one of the leather armchairs.

‘I brought another cup in case you had changed your mind,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’

‘Did you find anything of any help?’

‘No.’

‘I see. Earlier, you were going to say something weren’t you?’ she said, as she poured coffee into two cups. I guessed I was having coffee whether I wanted it or not.

The aroma filled my nostrils, and the room. I picked a cup of black and sipped. My pupils dilated and skin warmed.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to speak with your friends, what were their names... Richard and Felicity, the other day,’ I said. ‘How do you know them?’

‘Oh, I’ve known them for years,’ she said, before taking a sip from her cup. ‘I played tennis with Felicity here, before she met Richard. He’s a politician in Canberra.’

‘I see. How often is he down here?’

‘Hmm, not very – he’s in Canberra mostly, you might find him at his electorate office in Belmont. Though I think, he is back in Canberra now. No doubt caught a flight back yesterday afternoon. They are lovely couple. They’ve been very supportive since–’

Her eyes puddled with thoughts of her daughter.

‘It’s alright,’ I said, as I dragged a clean handkerchief from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. I left any more questions about Braithwaite unasked.

‘I think I may’ve found something,’ I said, changing the subject.

‘Yes?’ she said, and stopped stirring her coffee.

I sat my cup down, then slid the SIM and postcards from my pocket, and placed them on the coffee table in front of her.

‘I found these in Cassandra’s dorm at Deakin. The postcard was in the bin, ripped-up. The SIM card had been stuck under the bottom drawer from the chest of drawers in her room.’

Anne peered at the SIM card, and then scratched the back of her ear. ‘What was it doing there?’ she said. ‘That could be anyone’s – the previous person who had occupied that room perhaps.’

‘The SIM card had been hidden. It wasn’t just lying on the floor, like it’d been dropped. I think Cassandra had hidden it there to be found one day, in case something happened, maybe something that happened to her.’

‘Oh my God! Do you know what’s on it? Something’s happened to her? What’s happened?’

‘Not yet. I’m still working on it. I don’t suppose you know the four-digit pass code for her phone? I don’t suppose you’ve recently been to Cassandra’s room at Deakin, have you?’ I said, picking up my cup and taking a sip. The liquid mirrored the way I felt – dark and bitter.

Anne gently picked up the SIM card, studied it, and then placed it back on the coffee table.

‘No, no I don’t know it, ‘she said. ‘And, no, I haven’t been to her dorm recently. I, I was there a couple of months or so ago – I had brought some washing up for Cassandra. Tell me, what happened to her? Or at least, what do you think has happened to my little girl?’

Her chin began to quiver and then her body began to shake with sobs as the pain of loss overtook her. She left the couch and gazed out the window.

‘Just remind me where and when you last saw her?’

‘We were at Moons – the cafe,’ she said as she returned to the couch and attempted to compose herself. ‘That was where I saw her last.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I gently said.

‘Please, now what about this postcard?’ she said, wiping her eyes and dabbing her nose.

‘Okay, well the postcard I came across in a room at a backpacker’s hostel in Lorne, down on William Street. A girl staying in the room was found dead in there.’ I shut my mouth, and then raised my hands in reassurance so she wouldn’t collapse again. I didn’t want that. ‘It’s okay, it wasn’t Cassandra. I found out it was a girl from Europe who’d died from a drug overdose.’ I didn’t want to tell her that I believed that that wasn’t the case. She’d start asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

‘Oh dear, that’s terrible,’ she said, covering her mouth with her hand and then wiping her eyes. ‘That poor girl – I’d hate to think what her family are going through so far away. How did you find it? I mean, the police would–’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She peered at the postcards, flipped them over, and then placed them back on the coffee table. ‘How is this relevant to finding Cassandra?’ she said.

‘I admit, it’s pretty loose, but there may be a connection between the girl in the hostel and Cassandra. I don’t know yet. Do you recognise the writing or the numbers at all?’

‘Oh God!’ she said, and clutched her face.

‘There may not be any link between then, but it’s just something I’m considering at this point. I wouldn’t be alarmed. I don’t think any harm has come to Cassandra.’

Her eyes were wet. ‘Well, so long as you’re sure,’ she said. She picked up the postcard I’d found in the hostel and peered at the numbers again.

‘Do you recognise those numbers?’ I said softly.

‘No, no, I’m afraid not,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know what those numbers could be for. I don’t recognise the writing.’

‘I see. That’s okay.’

Anne uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She remained quiet for a moment as she stirred and then sipped her coffee. Her hand shook slightly as her eyes then fixed on the SIM and postcards in front of her. I slid the items toward me, and then into my jacket pocket. My eyes remained on Anne as my cup ran dry.

‘So, you think there might be a connection – between this girl and Cassandra?’ she said, suddenly. ‘Is, is that what you think?’

‘I just don’t know what yet.’

Her face then froze with fear. Her eyes became wet with the weight of loss on her mind.

‘I just wanted to let you know what I’d found,’ I said gently. ‘It could be nothing, but... I’ll contact Lawrence and Rebecca to let them know as well.’

‘Of course,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes, they would want to know of any new developments.’

I was ready to go. Anne suffered enough pain over Cassandra’s disappearance without my questions adding more than necessary. I got up. Anne remained seated.

Her eyes then turned away towards the window. ‘I still can’t help think that this is my fault,’ she said. ‘I, I wasn’t well after Lawrence and I separated, and then divorced. I wasn’t able to cope very well for a while. Though the children were perhaps old enough to make up their own minds, I suggested that they live with their father anyway – at least until I had recovered. I should have done more. I should have seen what was happening to her.’

My ears picked up. ‘What do you mean? What do you think was happening to her? Could she have run away with a boyfriend, perhaps? Does the name Michael mean anything to you?’

‘I’d hope that if Cassandra did have a boyfriend, she would tell me about him. But I’m not aware of anyone, let alone anyone by the name of Michael.’

‘I see.’

Anne shrugged, ‘I don’t know but if she’s disappeared then something must have been wrong! I should have noticed something, done something.’

‘It’s okay. I realise that this sounds hollow but try not to blame yourself. The best thing you can do is look after yourself and Simon.’

Emotion tightened her throat and choked her voice. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s what I try to tell myself. Thank you.’

I let myself out, sat in the car and called Lawrence Erskine. Rebecca answered the phone. I thought about telling her face to face, but figured it probably wouldn’t make any difference, so I told her what I’d told Anne about the SIM card and the postcards. She listened intently. I asked her if she’d been to Deakin recently to collect

91 any of Cassandra’s things. When she spoke, I found the smokiness in her voice alluring.. She told me that she hadn’t been to the uni… Then she killed the line.

I started the motor and drove back into town. I parked, and then wandered along the street. The air was still thick and heavy. The sound of a never-ending line of vehicles that’d clogged the road, and music echoing from bars, filled my head. Then there was the hustle of tourists sucking-up overpriced trinkets and expensive knock- offs, and locals trying to get their kids home from school along the choked footpath.

Wooden telephone poles and cypress trees lined the street in front of the neon- caked shops and cafes. Their shiny, tinsel surfaces started giving me a headache. I still didn’t recognise the joint.

The other side of the road offered the immensity of the ocean – like it’d engulf the town in one gulp. Surfers appeared as black dots at the back of the swell, waiting for something decent to take them in, while tourists’ kids braved the conditions and paddled along the shore.

I eventually found my way back to the cafe where I’d met Anne on Thursday – two days ago. I checked the daily newspapers – The Age, Herald Sun, The Australian, and then The Geelong Advertiser online on my phone and scoured the headlines. Then I looked up Braithwaite on my phone’s search engine. A list of pages littered the screen, some more parliamentary speeches, Facebook page, Twitter account, and another link to the Liberal Party website. Still no mention of the backpacker hostel or his connection to it.

Then I keyed-in the local rag – The Geelong Independent - and picked through its news items. A waitress took my order. I rolled and lit a cigarette and continued to scrawl through the week’s news. There was nothing in the dailies, but there was a piece about Cassandra being missing in the Addy and Independent – just small stories about police continuing their investigation, but it revealed nothing new. Before long, I’d reached the classifieds.

The waitress returned with my food, water and coffee and I paused to give her a nod before returning to the screen. Amongst the various birth and deaths, personals, massage parlours, matchmaking services and few job ads, there was a miniature black bird, under which was lined a series of six numbers. The numbers didn’t make enough

92 for a phone line; I needed at least eight for that. Maybe coordinates for somewhere? The inky bird figure reminded me of the tattoo I’d noticed above Rebecca’s ankle. The ad offered little else.

After I ate, I just took in the view of the street and across the bay towards the Grand Pacific Hotel and sipped water. I removed my sunglasses, wiped my eyes, and then tried to think above the never-ending tide of tourists that swamped the street. I felt something didn’t sit right with the ad. I grabbed the postcard and my phone from my jacket pocket, found the paper’s link and then the classifieds section again. Then I placed them together on the table and compared numbers.

They matched.

My mouth ran dry. Something was going on in this town. Despite having just eaten, my stomach now felt empty. My mind started swimming. What the fuck’s going on here? That bird. That damned bird. Rebecca? Nah, coincidence.

The empty cup and plate were taken away. I leaned back and tried to relax, hoping the view of the beach and the ocean beyond would leave space for some new insights. Instead, my imagination filled with images of Lauren’s body from last night. I closed my eyes and gave in to them.

The walk back to the car felt slow. My mind flicked between Lauren and Cassandra, the numbers and the image of the black bird. Eventually, I reached the car and drove back to the motel. When I arrived, I found messages on my phone – Lawrence Erskine rambled on about how pleased and relieved he was that I’d got some sort of lead. The other was from Lauren. I didn’t know if I wanted to listen to what she had to say.

Despite Erskine’s praise, all I knew was that I had a SIM card, a black bird in the classifieds, two postcards and a set of matching numbers. They were like pieces from a jigsaw puzzle I hadn’t seen, and I still didn’t really have a clue.

CHAPTER 11

The motel room felt cold. I switched on the TV and waited for the four-thirty news to beam-on and give me some sort of distraction from the emptiness. My wallet revealed what remained of Anne’s retainer. There wasn’t much left – about enough for a couple more nights and a few meals. It showed how expensive this town was. Apart from Janice’s salary and whatever I made the office ran off the smell of an oily rag. A cash injection was needed for me to stay on the case, whether I found the girl or not.

A day had passed since I’d been in Lorne, chasing down leads from strangers that led nowhere, still trying to figure out what a girl’s death, a politician, a blackbird and a set of numbers meant.

I headed back to the backpacker hostel. Nothing was making much sense so I figured I’d go back to where it did. I parked the car around the corner from the hostel, in a one-way street wedged between the ocean view and a suburban nightmare.

The noise from the hostel foyer fell out onto the street like drunks from a bar. Once inside, I slipped past the clamour of sweaty twenty-somethings and towards the wooden staircase that led me back to the room I didn’t want to go to.

Synthetic music shadowed my every step up these stairs, then along the corridor to the room. I looked around. No one had followed me. I tried the door. This time it was unlocked. The room reeked of some cheap cleaner, like Pine O Cleen. My mind flittered back to what I’d been like before – the stench of dirty clothes, the blood splatter in the carpet and on the wall. I peered up at the light that hung from the ceiling. The bare light bulb had been covered with a shade, the walls had been cleaned and the carpet replaced. The bed appeared higher, and freshly made. A couple of beige towels were draped over the bottom right-hand corner of the double bed. A thick blind hung high above the sash window. The noise from downstairs had crept up to the room – thumping music, laughter, and happy voices dispersed with the traffic hum. Nothing had happened in this room, and that’s the way it had to be.

The small bedside table and desk lamp without a shade had been replaced with a small set of drawers and a new lamp with a shade. In the top drawer lay a Gideons bible. I grabbed the book and flicked pages. Nothing fell out, nothing appeared. No

94 postcard to tell me anything new, to tell me anything at all. All I had were those damned numbers and that black bird pecking at my brain.

I left the Gideons the way I found it and then closed the door behind me and headed back to the car. When I returned to the motel, I put in a call to the Victoria Police Missing Persons Squad. The cop at the other end of the line sighed after I’d told him who I was and who I was looking for. He gave me no new leads on Cassandra Erskine. ‘Look, Carter or whatever your name is, I’m sorry but there’s nothing new here,’ he said. ‘There’s about thirty-five thousand people who are reported missing each year, and about sixteen hundred of them are never found. But I’m sure you would know that, wouldn’t you? Because you should.’

‘Okay,’ I said, scratching the side of my head wondering if I had any chance at all of finding her.

‘People go missing all the time; in fact, besides the girl in Lorne, the most recent cases are a fella from Mildura, and a woman from Morwell. Nobody’s seen either of them in a month or so. For whatever reason... sometimes, some just don’t want to be found.’

The cop’s tone didn’t help much. His words left me empty. I didn’t want to think about the consequences. I hung up and then dialled Anne Erskine’s number. I was running out of money, fast.

‘Anne. Frank Carver. Anne, I mean to say–’

‘You have some news about Cassandra?’ she said, lightly.

‘No. Not at this point.’

‘Oh,’ she said. Her tone had lowered.

‘I meant to tell you when I saw you the day before – Saturday – that my retainer is running low.’

‘Oh, I see.’

There was a pause. I’d hoped she’d say ‘all right, I’ll make sure that you have what you need’. Or of course, she could say ‘well you haven’t found my daughter so

I’m going to hire somebody who can’. I wouldn’t have been surprised if that’s what she thought. I didn’t have to wait long.

‘Of course,’ she said brightly.

I was a little surprised.

‘I’ll get Lawrence to write you a cheque,’ she said. ‘You do accept cheques, don’t you?’

‘Sure, though it’ll take a couple of days to pass.’

‘Yes, well, come by later and I’ll give you some money to help tide you over. I’ll pick up the cheque from Lawrence and give it to you then. Would that suffice?’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Good. What time do you think you’ll be here?’

I flicked my wrist and checked the time – about four thirty. The afternoon news had just started. Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

‘Hold on, Anne,’ I said.

The phone cradled in my hand as I opened the door, but no one was there.

Anne’s voice leapt from the receiver: ‘Hello? Are you still there, Mr Carver? Hello!’

A car sat on the other side of the lot. Two guys sat in a late model, grey- coloured Commodore. One eyeballed me then looked away as he smoked a cigarette, while the other sipped from a take-away cup. The car was unmarked, clean.

I closed the door.

My conversation with Anne continued for a while, before I hung up. On the TV, the newsreader looked bored as she read about something just as dull, before I turned away and flicked aside the edge of the window curtain. Outside, the sky remained dark, any sunlight had moved on to somewhere nice, away from the wet and foreboding atmosphere that had developed here. Large spats then hit the ground. The car was still there. Its wipers swished across the screen. The motor idled before the driver flicked his cigarette out his window. Gravel crunched as the vehicle slowly 96 circled the car park, then left. Maybe they were plainclothes cops on some stakeout, or a couple of thugs waiting to dish-out a beating on some poor bastard. Either way, it didn’t look good.

Suddenly my phone buzzed. A message from Lauren – said she felt lonely in her apartment; she wanted to talk. I was surprised she even called after the way she left my motel room a few days ago. Strangely, it sounded like there was a cat in the background. Don’t tell me she had got herself a cat!

I felt bad. Her voice left me with a hole in my belly, like she’d taken some of me with her back to Geelong, and I was left with the husk. I replied, saying that I’d be in Geelong tomorrow, and that we should catch up. I also wanted to get a change of clothes and give Janice the Erskine’s cheque to bank.

I did a quick mental calculation of whether I could give Janice a bit extra this week courtesy of the Erskine’s. She stuck by me even if I had to IOU her pay some weeks and I always liked to spot her a bit extra when I could. She was a good egg, leaving me alone while I was on a case, unless it was urgent. A sly grin creased my face – ha, I would have to admit it someday, she pretty much ran the fucking joint in between her own ups and downs. I momentarily closed my eyes to the world – back to the day when Bowman and I were about to be introduced to Janice’s mystery man...

‘Okay, Janice reckons Irish Murphy’s,’ Bowman said, as he walked in the office. ‘I’ll give Lauren a call – see if she wants to come.’

He sat at his desk and dialled her number. My heart pounded faster with every ring waiting for her to pick up. It was agony. I didn’t know if I wanted her to answer. He looked at me with a short grin, waiting. We were both waiting.

Then suddenly, ‘Hi, how’ya going?’ he said into the receiver. ‘Oh, ok, that’s good. We’re all going out for dinner. Yeah, no, just wait babe, you can come too. Yeah, yeah, we’re gonna meet Janice’s new boyfriend. Hey, nah, I don’t leave ’til the day after tomorrow. I’d told you that already. Yeah, Frank’ll be there. What, what do you mean you don’t want to come. It’ll be good! Anyway, we’re gonna leave soon, so get ready. I’ll see you later, babe. Okay. Bye.’

I kept my head in the newspaper until he’d finished the call.

‘I’ll see you there,’ he said, as he grabbed his bag.

I gazed over the newspaper. ‘Okay.’ My hand shook slight with anticipation of seeing Lauren.

Bowman neared the door. ‘What time did Janice say to meet at the pub?’ he said, checking his watch.

‘About seven. Her mystery man doesn’t finish work ’til six thirty, apparently. Who knows where she’s been hiding him? Ha, she never tells me anything, typical.’

We laughed.

‘Okay, I’ll see ya then,’ he said.

‘I’ll bring Janice with me.’

Then he walked out the door.

Sometime later, Janice put on her coat, before I locked the door and we made our way downstairs. The city was busy with commuter traffic and last-minute shoppers looking for something for dinner.

We drove onto Ryrie Street and then towards Aberdeen, before stopping at a set of lights and watched an endless flow of traffic make its way down Latrobe Terrace to the Princes Highway.

‘Do you think Lauren will be there?’ Janice asked, rummaging in her bag.

‘I don’t know. Lyle reckons she’ll be there, but I’m not so sure. Why?’

She closed her bag. ‘It’d be nice to see her, don’t you think?’

My eyes remained on the road. The lights turned green.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

She eyeballed me. ‘What’s up with you?’ she said. ‘Don’t you like her?’

The car slowed as we approached the pub, then turned right and pulled into a car park across the road. I killed the motor.

‘I didn’t say that I didn’t like her,’ I said, playing with my tie and clearing my throat. 98

Suddenly, a sense of anxiety and paranoia hit me – a double blow. Every word and step felt like it was being scrutinised. Questions struck my head searching for answers.

Did Janice know? Did she find out about me and Lauren? Would she tell Bowman?

The short walk to the pub’s door seemed to last forever as the burden of our affair weighed heavy...

Suddenly, the phone buzzed in my hand, twitching me out of the daydream. It was another message from Lauren – she wanted to know when I’d be in Geelong tomorrow. I sent her a text – early, perhaps.

Before heading to Anne Erskine’s to pick-up the cheque, I showered and then paid a visit to the motel’s restaurant. The rain had stopped, and the temperature had dropped. The thick, heavy cloud had shifted with an ocean breeze that’d headed inland, bringing with it a salty kelp-tinged aroma.

Once inside, I ordered a pot of Carlton Draught at the bar. The bar mat reminded me of the old days – the TV ads of my youth, when blokes had beer with their lunch and gave the barwoman the eye. I wonder if we’ve left those days behind, like a shadow clinging to the past. I couldn’t afford any of the overseas brands or the local boutique beers, brewed in some bloody warehouse in Brunswick by a couple of blokes with beards longer than their faces.

A lanky kid, who’d yet to fill out his shirt, poured the beer. He had a long face with soft facial hair over his top lip and chin. He offered small conversation about the weather, the surf. I told him I didn’t surf. He then gave me a dull face ’til I asked if he was a local.

‘Yeah,’ he said, handling a glass.

‘I don’t suppose you know the Erskine’s, do you?’

‘Yeah, I’m sort of a friend of Simon’s.’

‘What d’ya mean sort of?’

‘A friend of a friend, I suppose.’

‘Okay, so you’d know Cassandra as well?’

‘Yeah, his sister... she’s pretty hot, eh! I hear she’s no longer around. Some say she’s missing, even drowned. Damned shame if you ask me.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

The kid became edgy – his mouth twitched. His body jerked a little. He placed the glass on the bar, glanced around as staff set tables and offered menus for the dozen or so patrons already there. Then he wiped his mouth with the cuff of his black shirt.

‘Err, what’s this about, sir?’ he said quietly, as he shifted some more.

‘You’ve heard that Cassandra’s missing, right?’ I said.

‘Yeah, well I heard a rumour that she wasn’t around. But you can’t believe in rumours, can you?’

‘That depends – what’s the rumour?’

‘Well it’s been going round a while, I don’t know, maybe a month or so that she’d been out on someone’s boat, something happened and she’d drowned. But it was all hushed up.’

The restaurant became louder as more patrons entered and grabbed empty tables.

‘Sounds like bullshit to me. Anyway, where’d you hear this?’ I said, and then took a swig.

He picked-up the clean glass and started cleaning it again, then smiled and nodded at passing patrons.

‘Who are you?’ he said.

‘I’m working for the old lady to find the girl. Now, where’d you hear that she’d drowned? And whose boat was she on?’

At that moment, an old bloke saddled up to the bar. He was in his seventies, wearing a short-sleeved grey shirt, dark blue pants and sneakers. His thinning grey hair was swept to the side.

‘G’day fellas,’ the old man said, with a Scottish lilt. 100

The kid and I both nodded at him with a courteous smile.

‘What’ll it be, sir?’ the kid said.

‘I’ll have the house red,’ he said.

The old guy’s skin was dry, tanned. His face had seen too much sun. It was marked with sunspots, as well as divots and scars from melanoma removals. He glanced at the pot of beer in my hand, then toward at barman.

‘Tell ya what, son, I’ll have two of what he’s having and two glasses of Riesling,’ he said.

The kid poured the drinks, and then placed them on a tray. The old bloke slid out his wallet and then picked-up his beer.

‘Cheers fellas,’ he said, and took a long drink.

‘That’ll be–’ the kid said, before he was cut short.

‘Bugger it, just put it on the room; the number’s seven,’ he said. He slid his wallet back in his back pocket, placed his beer on the tray and then carried it over to his table. There sat a woman, who was probably his wife, and another couple of similar age. The old man’s bowed gait made me smile, reminding me of someone I hadn’t seen in a long time.

I turned back to the bar. The kid was shuffling about looking busy. ‘So where’d you hear that Cassandra’d drowned?’ I said. ‘Who told you that?’

He eyeballed me and then slightly shook his head. ‘I’d heard she’d drowned just off the point, out there in Louttit Bay,’ he said, gesturing toward the window. ‘I don’t know who owned the boat. But her body hadn’t been found.’

‘Sounds like Chinese whispers to me. Alright, what else?’

‘That’s all I heard.’

My hand was poised to grab the kid’s scrawny neck, before he backed away. ‘Look kiddo, who told you she’d drowned?’ I said louder, just so it got through.

101

The polite conversation in the restaurant suddenly stopped. I stepped back, before the chatter returned to its natural volume. The kid appeared a little more relaxed as he wiped another glass.

‘Keep talking while I sip my beer,’ I said.

‘Her mother said, I mean Mrs Erskine, she said that’s what she believed had happened to her – to Cassandra,’ he said. ‘It was in the local paper a while ago.’

‘And the boat?’

‘Well I just heard something about a boat from other people around town… might’ve been owned by a politician or something. I don’t know. Maybe.’

Chinese whispers. ‘That politician gotta a name?’

‘Um, shit... Richard someone I think!’

‘Wait a minute, is it Richard Braithwaite?’

‘I don’t know... could be. I’m not into politics.’

‘Me neither, except when yachts are involved. Now, what about the mother, were you talking about Anne Erskine or–’

But before I could get an answer, he’d been whisked away by a senior staff member to do something else. I went to follow him before the bar manager started asking me questions I wasn’t gonna answer and directed me toward the door.

Shit! Maybe if I had a meal and hung around a while, I could speak with the kid a little more. Questions stirred in my head: did the girl drown? Who was behind the rumour that Cassandra had drowned – Anne, Rebecca or Richard bloody Braithwaite, and why? And why hadn’t either Anne or Rebecca mentioned their suspicions to me?

My glass fell empty, before I stepped over to a podium where a waitress had been allocating patrons tables.

‘Good evening sir, do you have a reservation?’ she said.

‘No. I didn’t realise motel guests needed one.’

She smiled. Her eyes glazed over a list of names scribbled on a piece of paper over a menu, peered around the restaurant and then back at me. ‘I’m sorry sir, but I 102 don’t have a table available,’ she said. ‘Guests here are still required to book a table for dinner.’

‘Ugh, I didn’t know that.’ Only in Lorne. ‘You don’t have a table at all?’

‘For how many?’

I peered round, and then back at her and raised my index finger. ‘One.’

She glanced over the list again, and slowly shook her head. ‘Sorry sir, we’re fully booked,’ she said, with a slow smile. ‘You could come back later if you wish. We may have a table then – say nine?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I muttered and turned away.

I went to look for the kid again but found his manager instead. He told me to get fucked and stop bothering the staff. I didn’t wanna cause a scene. My thoughts then turned to who’d earlier knocked on my motel room door and vanished, and the men in the car, before I decided to head into town for a pizza. Then, just as I was about to leave, the American woman, who’d briefly spoken with me after Lauren had taken off a couple of days back, came over and gently clutched my elbow. She wore some sort of floral number, dyed reddish-coloured hair that curled above her brow, and low- heeled shoes. She asked me if my wife had returned. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Lauren being thought as my wife. It didn’t seem to gel. I told her that she wasn’t my wife, and that she hadn’t returned. She smiled and went back to her table. There, her husband had finished his dessert and had started on hers.

I left.

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CHAPTER 12

It was getting dark by the time I lumbered back to the car. The weather had changed again – pissing down rain, and cold. The motor rumbled to life before I flicked the lights and wiper blades, then rolled and lit a smoke. The radio crackled with a worthy tune. The road was black and wet as I made my way toward Mountjoy Parade. A few minutes later, the street’s neon glared at me as I wiped the fogged-up windscreen. Eventually I pulled up outside the backpacker hostel.

Outside, a young crowd of tourists and backpackers milled around under the large awnings and back through to the bar. Music, chatter, laughter, and booze filled the air as I walked in and grabbed a table. The menu was appealing enough. I ordered a pizza and a beer from a girl with an Italian accent. For some reason, the pizza arrived before the beer. When the beer did arrive, long after I finished the pizza, I left the table and drank it at the bar. I momentarily turned away. I then noticed that the sign above the door which read, Proprietor: R. Braithwaite, was gone. Hmm, interesting. I turned back to the bar. The guy behind the bar was the same fella I’d spoken with the last time I was here at the reception counter in the hostel.

‘Mate, how’ya going?’ he said, flicking his hair out of his face.

‘Good, tell me something,’ I said.

‘What’s that, mate?’

I pulled-out the photograph of Cassandra from my jacket pocket. ‘Have you seen this girl? Her name’s Cassandra.’

He looked at me with a smile. ‘Mate, she looks alright, she your daughter or something?’ he said, wiping his mouth.

His colleagues joined him, glanced past the photograph, and then left without a word and started collecting glasses.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Cassandra Erskine. She’s from around here and she’s missing. Have you seen her?’

‘She’s the girl in the newspapers, right?’

‘Yep. Seen her?’ My patience was thinning. 104

He momentarily looked away. ‘I’d seen her around a couple of times, just glimpses. Seen her with a guy once, but that was it.’

I dragged my wallet from my back pocket and scrounged for whatever that was left, then flashed it before his jaded eyes.

‘Look mate,’ I said, waving a couple of one hundred dollar notes. ‘How ’bout you do us both a favour and tell me. Now, the dead girl upstairs–’

‘I, I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Really? I don’t think so.’

‘She died of a drug overdose, didn’t she?’ he said. He then went to snatch the notes from my hand.

‘Uh, uh! Not yet.’

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and then smeared it across his jeans. ‘Alright, she, the girl upstairs was a backpacker from Sweden or somewhere round there,’ he said. ‘She was a real looker, if you know what I mean. She was here for a bit and then left. Then she came back a couple of weeks later with this guy and a woman.’

‘What guy? What woman? What’d they look like?’

‘I don’t know; I hadn’t seen either of them around here before. He looked older, and he spoke like... I dunno, posh or something I suppose. Maybe he had an accent or something. She bought this girl and the other girl a drink. They weren’t here long.’

‘What about her, the woman? What was she like?’

‘Huh, she looked pretty hot! A real MILF, I reckon. She had blonde hair but seemed pretty normal.’

‘Seen either of them here before?’

‘Nuh!’

‘What’s the name of the guy who owns this place again?’

105

‘Don’t know... I think it may’ve changed hands. I was told the place had gone up for auction a year or so back – some out of towner probably. So, I’d say somebody else owns it.’

‘Any idea who it is?’

‘The owner? Nuh! Wouldn’t know him if I fell on him.’

‘I see. Alright, then what happened?’

‘Mate, you ask a shit load of questions.’

‘Comes with the job. What happened when the girl came back?’

‘Well, that was a while ago. I didn’t see them again. But I don’t know, the girl was here for a couple of days, and then she wound-up dead, you know drug overdose. Strange though...’

‘What’s that?’

‘Well, she didn’t look like a typical junkie. She looked good, clean. But I guess you never know.’

‘When was this? How long ago was this girl, Cassandra, here?’ I said, pointing at the photograph.

‘Err, ’bout a month ago. I don’t know, may be less.’

‘Did Cassandra and the other girl refer to the couple by name? Did the girls appear uncomfortable at all with them?’

‘Nah, they seemed alright enough to me – they seemed to trust them, especially the woman – like they were under her wing or something.’

‘Okay, so you reckon this couple’s on the level, yeah?’

‘Well, he didn’t look like he was a smack head or anything like that – he was smart, wearing a suit and tie like some sort of businessman. And she was pretty hot – a real MILF.’

‘Yeah, so you say. Can you tell me anymore about her?’ I said, pointing to Cassandra’s photograph again.

106

‘Well, as I said, I saw her briefly with some guy; he seemed a real loser. Maybe he was a dealer or something. I don’t know.’

‘Was he the same age or older?’

‘Hmm, ’bout the same I age, I suppose. I never saw him alone. I just saw him with her.’

‘How’d she look?’

‘Blonde. I dunno, ’bout average chick’s height. She was pale lookin’ and sorta dark around the eyes. He looked the same. They both looked like they needed a good feed and an hour in the sun.’

‘Would you recognise this older couple, or this fella with Cassandra, again?’

‘Hmm, maybe, I don’t know. I see a lot of people here.’

I finished my drink and handed him the money and left. If Cassandra was still alive, I figured it wouldn’t be for long.

The information sounded reasonable enough – Cassandra could be caught up in drugs, perhaps owing money to this couple or somebody else. But I was still none the wiser about the dead girl, the rumours that Cassandra had drowned, and now this older couple.

The rain hadn’t left as I drove to Anne Erskine’s house.

Rain splashed against the driver-side window as I peered for the right street off the main road. I headed up a street that seemed to be the right one. But the road led me up a hill, past silent homes with no lights on to another street, and then another. It didn’t take me long to realise I was lost. I felt like I was in a dark maze, wandering around blind. The headlights just reflected off the rain – I couldn’t see a thing on the road. The wipers were working overtime as the car took me left, then right, then right again, then down a hill and back up, then right, then left, and left again. I pulled over and wound down the window a little. The smell of rain, bitumen and wet eucalyptus filled the car. My face was wet with rain and sweat. I shut the window, and made my way back to the main drag, before eventually finding the right turn and the way to Anne Erskine’s address.

107

Two cars were parked in the drive – a newish model Mazda and an old Ford Laser. I knew the Mazda was Anne’s, while I figured the Laser belonged to Simon or a friend. Either way, I jotted down the rego plates for future reference.

I left the car in the rain and after I’d shaken off most of the wet like some dog, Anne let me in. We exchanged pleasantries, before I apologised for being late. She seemed warmer than when I was here a couple of days ago. She led me into the dimly- lit lounge room and I began to dry out. The place had the aroma of cooking – chicken, sizzling bacon, browned mushrooms and white wine. I’d once made a similar dish for Lauren – apparently she didn’t like it – said she’d become a vegetarian. I didn’t believe her.

Anne turned down the volume on the television to a low hum. The dining table had been set for three. Noise bounced down the corridor into the lounge room.

‘You have visitors?’ I said.

‘Oh, just Simon and Sophie,’ she said. ‘They’re here for dinner. I don’t know if they’re staying the night or not. I think they should as the weather is atrocious. Would you like a drink, Mr Carver – a glass of wine, or would you prefer tea of coffee?’

The two beers I’d had earlier had been absorbed into the pizza, so a glass of vino wouldn’t go astray, especially after the drive I’d had.

‘Sure, a glass of red would be nice, thanks.’

‘Oh, sorry I don’t have any red, but I do have a nice sauvignon blanc,’ she said, dryly. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Yeah, that’s fine.’ The last time I had that was with Lauren a few nights back. I’d drunk too much then, and paid for it.

Anne smiled, strolled back into the kitchen and then returned with two glasses. Simon and Sophie then ventured from a hallway into the lounge room.

‘I take it you’ve already met Simon,’ Anne said.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Simon, how’re you going?’

Simon looked at me, and then smiled. ‘Good thanks,’ he said brightly.

108

He looked better. His face wasn’t as bad – no red blemishes, but the poor bastard had more divots than a sand trap. He seemed happy. Perhaps it was because he was at his mother’s house, or because his girlfriend was here.

Anne then gestured toward the girl standing next to Simon. ‘Mr Carver, this is Sophie, Simon’s friend,’ she said, with a slight tone.

‘You mean girlfriend!’ said Simon, as he glanced at his mother.

Sophie smiled politely and mouthed ‘I’m not’ and then looked away, slightly embarrassed. She seemed casual enough about it, as she moved in her faded red long- sleeved t-shirt, black leggings and socks. Somehow, the idea didn’t seem to agree with her.

‘Hi,’ I said. There was something about her, something warm. Then it dawned on me that she was the same girl from the shop where I’d looked to buy sunglasses a couple of days before. ‘We met, haven’t we?’

Sophie twirled slightly on the spot. ‘I don’t know. Have we?’ she said. ‘Simon’s told me about you, though.’

‘The shop – that’s where I know you from,’ I said. ‘I came in a couple of days ago, asking about sunglasses.’

Sophie momentarily stared into the distance, as she tried to put a face to a place, and then gazed at me. ‘Oh yeah, that’s right, yeah,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m still looking for a pair, for a decent price,’ I smiled coyly.

‘That’s right; you said the Dolce and Gabbana’s were too expensive,’ she said, and lightly brushed my hand. ‘What’s your first name Mr Carver?’

‘Frank.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t Frank a bit of an old name?’ she said.

A grin smeared my face. ‘I don’t know, is it? My parents were big Sinatra fans–’

‘Who?’ she said blankly and looked at Anne.

‘He was a singer,’ Anne said. 109

I sipped my glass of wine and watched Anne make some last-minute adjustments to the table settings.

‘Would you like to stay for dinner, Mr Carver?’ she said.

‘I’ve eaten already, but thanks anyway.’

‘Well if you’re still hungry, there’s plenty here.’

‘No, I’m good. Thanks.’

Sophie helped Anne bring out the food, and sat down. Simon had fixed Sophie and himself a glass of Coke, then went off again and came back with a spare chair, before he sat.

Sophie smiled at me. ‘Are you going sit down?’ she said.

‘All right.’

I sat and watched them eat. I felt uncomfortable. Little was said, just polite smiles, the sound of eating, and the occasional flicking of hair. I hoped my glass wouldn’t empty anytime soon.

Simon started touching his face – squeezing pustules and smearing its contents over the leg of his jeans. Anne noticed me looking at him, before my eyes veered away.

‘Not at the table, darling,’ she said, glancing past Simon.

He cleared his throat. ‘Um, sorry,’ he said.

Sophie smiled at me, and lightly touched my hand. I moved it away and cleared my throat, but found little to say. I wanted them to eat faster to end the tension inside me. I just wanted that fucking cheque and the money she’d promised. Ask them about the rumour that her daughter had drowned, and then clear off. I may as well have put my hand up for dinner.

Anne and Simon just smiled, sipped their drinks and finished their meals. My glass was now empty, as I twirled it between my fingers. Anne noticed.

‘Another, Mr Carver? Or perhaps coffee?’ she said.

‘Sure, coffee would be nice. Thanks.’ 110

Anne rose from her chair and lifted her plate from the table, before Simon and Sophie followed suit. ‘Good,’ Anne said. ‘I’ll get you those items we talked about over the phone, just a moment.’

Anne slipped into the kitchen then wandered into the hallway and into another room. Interesting she didn’t want to say ‘the cheque and cash’ in front of her kid. I guess that comes with having money – just because you’ve got it doesn’t mean you talk about it.

Simon and Sophie sauntered into the kitchen, and then returned to the lounge room and slouched on the couch. Simon turned-up the volume on the TV. A moment later, Anne returned with the cheque and a black leather purse in her hands.

‘Here we go, Mr Carver,’ she said, as she folded the cheque in half and handed it to me.

I opened the fold and glanced at the amount, then slipped the cheque inside my jacket pocket. Anne opened her purse and slid out a thin wad of fifties. The crisp lemon-coloured notes seemed to shimmer in the light.

‘This should be enough until the cheque clears, Mr Carver,’ she said, passing me the cash.

‘I’m sure. Thank you,’ I said, and stuffed the notes into my wallet.

‘Lawrence asked if you could see him,’ she said. ‘Obviously as the cheque is somewhat of a considerable amount – I think he just wants to see that he’s getting some value for money.’

My hands fell into my pockets as I considered her comment – were they his words or hers?

‘No problem, I’ll make a point of seeing him at his office tomorrow.’

‘Good. He’d appreciate that. Were you still having coffee, Mr Carver?’

I smiled, ‘If it’s no trouble?’

The cheque and the wad of dough would keep the investigation running, and Janice and the office ticking over. Now I was keen to get their ideas about the drowning rumour. 111

‘Tell me... you’ll have to pardon my bluntness,’ I said. ‘But have you at all considered that Cassandra may have drowned?’

Silence filled the air; only the television kept blurting voices like a confined lunatic in the corner of the room. I felt their eyes hit me.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Anne.

My hands slipped out of my pockets. ‘Just something I heard,’ I said. ‘It got me thinking – perhaps she’d gone for a swim, and then got into trouble – a strong current or a freak wave, and couldn’t get back to shore. Maybe she fell off a boat, perhaps an accident.’

The press had mentioned that the beach was the last place the girl had been seen. Unless someone was feeding the papers false information. But, who? Why? I hoped she didn’t become upset. I didn’t do tears that well.

‘Hmm, we had thought about it, hadn’t we Simon?’ she said. ‘But, we quickly ruled it out. I don’t know anything about a boat. The only time I’ve ever heard of her going out on a boat was with Richard and Felicity. They still have a boat, don’t they Simon?’

He nodded.

‘But, as far as I know Cassandra hasn’t been on it for some time. And, I wouldn’t call it a boat – it’s only eighteen-foot.’

The tinny I once owned was about five-foot; guess that didn’t count as a boat either.

Simon turned around. ‘Yeah, Cassandra didn’t really like going in the surf that much,’ he said. ‘Probably because she was afraid she’d drown.’

Hmm, maybe someone was feeding the press dud information. But who? Why?

Sophie kept her eye on me, turned back to the TV, and then said, ‘Poor Candy.’

Candy?

My eyes hit Sophie, before Anne led me toward the kitchen to make coffee.

112

‘How did you hear that she may’ve drowned? Anne probed. ‘Hmm, well whoever it was, they didn’t get it from me. I don’t know, Mr Carver, call it a mother’s intuition, but I feel that she’s still alive.’

My hands slid back into my pockets.

Anne made the coffee. She kept it together, no tears. It wouldn’t have looked good if she’d lost it in front of the kid and his girl. A moment later, Anne and I sat at the table over the dark brew. Then Simon peered at his watch and said that he had to get back to his Dad’s house. Sophie said she’d drive him. So, it was her car out the front next to Anne’s. A couple of minutes later, they were gone.

I wanted to pursue the Braithwaite angle a little more now that Simon and Sophie were gone, but before that I wanted to ask Anne about Sophie.

‘They seem pretty good together – Simon and Sophie?’ I suggested.

‘Yes, they’re friends, she is with Cassandra as well. I think she’s actually more her friend than his, but under the circumstances they’ve formed more of a bond.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And, between you and me, Mr Carver, I don’t think she gets on that well with Rebecca.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, I don’t really know, but Simon tells me that she’s not at their house very often; of course, with Simon away at school in Geelong, Sophie wouldn’t be there. But when he’s back on weekends and school holidays, I’m aware that she’s not there all the time.’

‘I see. Do you think that’s surprising?’

‘Well they’re teenagers, Mr Carver. Need I explain,’ she smiled. ‘I don’t know, perhaps... Sophie and Rebecca just don’t get along.’

‘Sure, what about her parents?’

‘Sophie’s? I’ve never met them... actually, when I think about it, neither has Cassandra or Simon.’

113

‘Do you think that’s strange?’

‘Hmm, not really... a lot of people work here over the summer months and go back to wherever they’re from – Geelong or Melbourne. I’m sure Sophie said that she was sharing a house with some others who are also working here before they go back home. But I’m sure her parents are nice people. Probably those ‘aspirational voters’ as Richard would say.

Anne’s segue helped me ease into my next line of questioning.

‘Richard and Felicity seem a nice a couple,’ I said. Lie. ‘Do you see them much?’

‘Yes, they’re lovely,’ Anne said taking a sip from her cup. ‘Though, I don’t see them as often as I’d like. Richard’s always in Canberra and Felicity works in Geelong. She occasionally volunteers at his electorate office.’

‘Do they have a place down here?’

‘Oh yes, it’s quite nice–’

‘Overlook the sea does it?’

She placed her cup on the table. ‘Of course!’

Of course! ‘That’s nice. Do they have anything else here, a business perhaps?’

‘No, not that I’m aware of,’ she said, and picked up her cup from the table and took another sip. ‘They’re far too busy with politics, let alone to be running anything here. Though, I’m sure he used to own or part-own an establishment in town, a hostel or something, but sold it maybe a year ago or more before he go into politics. I don’t know who bought it. It happens often here – buying, selling – a lot of people from Melbourne, and of course, foreigners.’

I sipped my cup. ‘I’m sure,’ I murmured. ‘Any tidy investments; could they recommend something, a property perhaps?’

‘Ha, that’s funny, Mr Carver, but the only property they have here is their holiday home. And, as far as recommendations go, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but going by your business I’m not entirely sure you would have the capital.’ 114

I laughed. She was right, but her toff tone left me cold. ‘I think you could be right about that. So whereabouts is their holiday house, near the beach?’

‘Oh no, not far from here actually, just along Allen Street, you cannot miss it. It has a tall palm tree in the front garden; it’s the only one in the street.’

‘Nice.’ I figured I’d take a look around while I was in the neighbourhood.

My cup was empty, and I was ready to leave. I told Anne that I’d keep her posted, and then let myself out.

The rain had stopped. The cloud had broken-up revealing a patchwork of stars in the cold, black sky. The smell of sodden grass and eucalyptus filled my nostrils as I walked back to the car. The Laser, which had been parked next to the Mazda, was gone. I sat in the car, rolled a cigarette, started the motor and flicked the lights. I dug out my Zippo, burnt the end of my smoke and then headed back through town towards my motel.

My watch read about nine. The neighbourhood was quiet. Then, as I neared the main drag, the traffic became heavier, and I was hit with the blurry glow of neon and the buzz of cafes and bars. The rear-view mirror had a car overtake another behind me, before I slowed to a red light. The car was two behind the one behind me. The light turned green and I took off. A moment later, the car overtook another – now it was just one behind me. I couldn’t tell if I was being followed or not. The next set of lights was red, but I floored it, took a sharp left, and then pulled over. I checked my rear-view mirror and waited – nothing.

115

CHAPTER 13

A few minutes later I was driving back towards Anne Erskine’s joint before I headed along another suburban road, past the flicker of dreary TV screens in dull windows, and then up a hill, and another. Eventually I found Allen Street and motored along to what became a dead-end. I pulled a U-turn and stalked past the houses until I found one that matched Anne’s description – it had ‘the tall palm tree in the front garden; it’s the only one in the street.’

I pulled up two houses away, killed the lights and engine, grabbed a small torch from the glove box and then stepped out of the car. Lights were on in a couple of neighbouring houses. I kept the noise to a minimum.

The door was certainly locked. There was about half a centimetre between the door and the jamb. I looked back around – no one. Amongst the shrubbery of natives and ferns, a couple of tall eucalypts in the front yard swayed with a slight breeze. The manicured lawn looked fake, and probably was. I snatched the kit from my pocket and then took the lock in less than twenty seconds. I opened it about an inch and peered inside. Then I shoved it open, walked in and locked it behind me. I flicked the torch on and wandered around. The house appeared appropriate for a conservative politician – clean, tidy and full of photographs of themselves. The place had a rustic feel with a rug on the lounge room wall and floor, assorted lamps shades and cedar furniture. It held the aroma of dead flowers and sandalwood.

After I’d made my way past the kitchen and its stone benches, marble tiles and polished stainless-steel appliances, I eventually found Braithwaite’s study. Framed photographs of Braithwaite and other characters I didn’t know adorned the walls. Press clippings about him and other politicians spilled across the desk next to copies of the day’s unopened newspapers. The plush carpet deadened the noise as I rummaged through drawers, cabinets and cupboards for receipts, cheque stubs, anything that would connect him to the backpacker hostel. Then I found something. It was buried under some papers, a contract of sale between parties – one representing Braithwaite and a partner perhaps, and another... something Developments. The deal was brokered through Erskine Real Estate, with a signature I couldn’t fathom. I took a photo with my phone.

116

Suddenly, I heard a noise and stopped.

Somebody was at the front door; a key turned the lock and the door opened.

I flicked off my flashlight. Whoever they were had come inside, their footsteps tapping on the marble tiles. A shot fired – smashing a vase and putting a hole in the wall. I quickly left the study and hid in an adjoining room, but from there I couldn’t see who the intruder was. My heart was running faster than my head. Who the fuck is this?

Footsteps slapped against the tiled floor. I couldn’t tell if they belonged to a man or woman. Then, as quickly as they’d arrived, they closed the door, before a car sped off. I didn’t know if that bullet was meant for Braithwaite or me.

I ran into the lounge room and peered through the curtains, but I didn’t recognise the car’s red taillights in the distance. The neighbours hadn’t seemed to notice.

Sweat beaded my face as I flicked the flashlight and quickly looked around. The street light flashed and penetrated the blackness, casting my shadow against the dining room wall where the bullet lodged. I prized it out with my penknife – small calibre, something light. Questions ran through my head faster than I could keep up. Nothing made any sense.

A door led into the garage. The room was equipped with the usual stuff – leaf blower, the blower vac, mower, mulcher, enough tools to sink a ship, let alone an eighteen-foot yacht. A desk sat below some power tools. I opened a drawer. There was a photograph of the Braithwaite family – Richard, Felicity, and by the look of it, their daughter. On the other side, a message read: Richard, yours forever kiss, kiss, kiss. Maybe the prick was having an affair.

I quickly returned to the study and wiped away any prints, and then left. I locked the front door behind me and wiped any more prints, before I got back in the car.

Inside my motel room, I switched on the TV. The drone of the television provided some comfort to the emptiness, but not from the questions whirring in my head over what had happened. I poured a scotch and took a belt to calm the nerves.

117

What the hell was the gunshot about? Drive-by shootings and guns were pretty rare in this country, let alone in gentrified Lorne. Either, Richard was into some serious shit, or someone had followed me and took a pot-shot to scare me off. In any case, I was adding two and two and getting nine. I fished the cheque from my jacket pocket, counted the bills in my wallet, and then peered at Cassandra in the creased photograph. Poor Candy.

Candy!

Sophie! Sophie had called her Candy. Everyone known to her, except her own family, had called her Candy – Mel the ‘girlfriend’ at Deakin, Rebecca and now, Sophie. I still had the SIM card but no pass code.

I grabbed my phone and instinctively checked for a message from Lauren – nothing. Then I flipped the screen and went to dial her number. But as I peered at the keypad, I noticed the numbers and the series of letters below.

Could it be, Candy?

C-A-N-D-Y had one too many digits. I then tried something shorter – C-N-D- Y, and thumbed the corresponding numbers – 2, 6, 3, 9.

It worked.

The girl’s photograph appeared on the screen. Her face was cheerful and bright. There were no phone numbers. I scrawled through some pictures of her – with Mel, the girl from Deakin University, followed by one with her brother, Simon, and, another with her parents. Cassandra was happy, as if nothing was wrong in her life.

A minute passed. Then an image appeared at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. It read two minutes of footage. I pressed play.

As I waited for the video to stream, I could hear people outside my room heaving luggage into cars. The motel’s cleaning staff were busy picking-up dinner trays that’d been left outside guests’ rooms. The American woman I’d encountered the other day after Lauren’s sudden departure was with a group of other tourists talking about directions to the Twelve Apostles, while some others were seeking alternate routes back to Geelong for flights out of Avalon. But back in my room, something else was going on. 118

The footage showed Cassandra at the beach with a girl with sandy-brown coloured hair in a bob-style cut and a ruddy complexion. It was Sophie. The girls were wearing matching bikinis and sarongs around their waists. Suddenly, Simon appeared. His face was close to the phone’s camera, and then it panned back to Cassandra and the other girl. His face looked better. Maybe the sun helped clear up the mess.

Simon’s voice called out as he pointed the camera at them. ‘Cass, Sophie, say hello to everyone,’ he said.

They turned, waved and jovially walked toward the camera.

‘Hello everyone,’ Cassandra said laughing. ‘Just enjoying the sun and surf–’

Didn’t Simon say that she didn’t like the beach?

I peered over at the postcard. The images looked like they’d both appeared from an ad selling the town and its carefree lifestyle, hooking everyone in.

Simon mouthed something humorous about sharks. Then the footage suddenly stopped, and turned into something else. The sunny faces and sounds had gone. The screen revealed a dark room with music, like thrash metal. Grey sunlight filtered through a heavy curtain as the vision slowly swept across drab walls to a door.

Then the music became louder – grinding metal, voices screaming as if in agony. Suddenly, the camera panned around to the opposite side of the room, to a window, before it turned back to the door. Then a woman walked into the room. Her head was covered in a black hood. She wore a faded yellow t-shirt and a dirty denim skirt. She was soon followed by a young man. His face was covered with a Zorro-like mask and he was only wearing jeans. He gazed at the camera, and then at the woman. The camera then zoomed-out slightly as the man took off the hood.

The music changed to a choral piece. It was beautiful; a woman’s voice with angelic tones soared around the room, circling the pair in a sonic tomb. I felt sick.

I was glued to the chair. My heart raced with anticipation.

Some of the people outside had got in their cars and drove away, while others had noisily wandered across the gravel car park to the motel’s restaurant. I got up, pressed pause on the phone, and flicked the curtains. Now no one was around.

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I then sat on the bed and hit play on the phone. The hood fell to the floor revealing the young woman’s long blonde hair. The camera zoomed-in – her face was turned to the wall.

Suddenly, the thrash metal died and a voice appeared over the vision. ‘Turn her around,’ it said.

The voice sounded muffled, with little way of knowing if it was a man or woman. Either way, I didn’t like where this was going.

The fella then turned the girl around. Her eyes were closed. Makeup was caked around her eyes, making her look like some vampire from a black and white movie. She was pale, with a clammy complexion. Then her eyes opened. The blue irises and dilated pupils dully stared into the camera. I sat watching her, staring into the abyss of her eyes.

It was Cassandra.

Then another voice appeared. ‘You know what to do.’ This time the voice was less muffled and sounded female.

The young man then lifted the yellow t-shirt above Cassandra’s head, exposing her pert breasts. Then she undid his jeans and started jerking him off.

‘You know what to do, Candy,’ the female voice said.

Then the first voice reappeared, ‘Be a good girl for me,’ it said. ‘Hmm, my sweet little Candy.

She then dropped to her knees and took the fella in her mouth. A few seconds later, she looked up at whoever was holding the camera and then appeared to follow directions for her to stand. Then the fella unzipped her denim skirt and pushed it down her slender hips. It fell to the floor. She stood awkwardly in her white panties, like she was trying to remember what to do next. Then he cupped her right breast, while his left hand crawled between her legs. A moment later, he was behind her making slapping noises against her buttocks. The camera had lowered, level with her face. Her eyes stared blankly into the camera at me, her mouth open in pleasure. Suddenly, the camera stopped. Then footage of Cassandra and the others at the beach appeared again.

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I clambered out of the chair into the bathroom and threw up in the sink. I was sweating like a fucking pig. I was also hard. My mouth tasted like charcoal as I slowly walked back to the mini-bar. I sat on the edge of the bed for a while and let the booze soak in and wash through me.

Behind the neon lights, something dark and strange was happening in this town, something that made me feel sick.

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CHAPTER 14

I made an early start to get back to the office, still thinking about last night’s near miss at Braithwaite’s holiday home and the footage on the SIM card. I needed to get into Geelong early to give me enough time to go to the office, get some spare clothes, check out some other angles about Cassandra, and then to drive back to Lorne to see Lawrence Erskine this afternoon.

Traffic was light along the Great Ocean Road as I made my way through Aireys Inlet, Anglesea and Torquay back to Geelong. The weather was brighter than yesterday. It cheered me up a little and I hoped it would remain that way.

I’d been in Lorne about a week, but it felt like it’d been at a least a month.

By the time I’d arrived back in Geelong, the sky had brightened, blue with just patchy cloud, but the temperature remained cool. The traffic grind eventually led me down Moorabool Street, then right into Ryrie. I grabbed the letter from the estate agent from the glove box and read it again. The street felt like it was closing in on me. I was running out of time but I still didn’t know what to do. I didn’t wanna have to ask Janice to put me up ’til I could find a place. I asked too much of her already by asking her to wait longer than she should for her pay while I tried to keep the business afloat. I loosened my tie. It didn’t help.

I left the car on the street, ventured into the building and up the stone steps to my office, before I slipped the key from my pocket and opened the door. I felt better, but like so many things, it felt temporary. It was about eight thirty. Janice hadn’t yet showed. The place was quiet and still, like a morgue before rush hour. The office was stale. If Janice had been in already, she hadn’t opened a window. I let some air in through the window behind my desk, and then sat in my chair. Larry Erskine’s cheque sat comfortably in my jacket pocket, but his daughter was still missing.

About twenty minutes passed before Janice walked in, turned on her computer, and grabbed her cup from her desk. She strode into my office – white blouse, dark grey pants and black pumps, carrying a copy of today’s Geelong Advertiser. ‘Morning Frank!’ she said, brightly. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

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‘How’re you going?’ I chirped. ‘Just came back for a change of clothes and to find out what’s been going on, if anything.’

‘Well, not a great deal. I’ve banked those cheques from the last two clients. We may have another one, perhaps. I said you were away on a case. I have their details if you want to give them a call. How have you been?’

I nodded, then reached inside my jacket pocket for Erskine’s cheque and handed it to her. ‘I was shot at last night, but besides that, here’s one to bank. That’ll give you something to do.’

‘You were shot, who by?’

‘Fuck knows. Whoever it was either was after me or possibly Braithwaite at his holiday house.’

‘Braithwaite?’

‘Yeah, Richard Braithwaite... the politician. I was at his Lorne retreat last night looking for something that might connect him to the backpacker hostel where a girl was found dead, but someone tried to redecorate the place with this…’ I grabbed the bullet from my pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘It’s a small calibre, something light, maybe something small enough to carry in a purse.’

‘Jesus Frank! Are you alright?’

‘Yeah, I’m alright.

‘So, you think the shooter could be a woman?’

‘Maybe. But in any case, it just left me with more questions than I can answer.’

Janice shook her head, and then stared at the numbers on the cheque. ‘Hell Frank, that’s a substantial amount,’ she said. ‘Are you sure that’s right?’

I smiled. ‘I wasn’t gonna ask questions. And, the Erskine lady also gave me enough fifties to count to ten, twice.’

I slipped my wallet out and then handed Janice about half the total.

She smiled. ‘What’s this for?’ she said.

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‘Rent, bills – whatever’s left, keep it. You’re always reading those glossy magazines you get; I don’t know... surprise me.’

Janice stopped at the door and turned, ‘Would you like me to buy you a coffee?’ she asked.

I smiled with a slow nod, and then waved her off.

Janice left the newspaper on my desk. I flicked pages, eyeing headlines, and then thought about sending Lauren a text to let her know I was back in town. She’d given me her number well before Lyle had taken his ill-fated trip to bloody Ringwood.

Lyle.

My hand had slipped into my pocket and flicked the Zippo lid. My breathing quickened, and pulse climbed. Jesus, the fucker’s been dead a year and he’s still killing me.

There was a small article in the paper about Cassandra. It was one of those ‘blink and you would’ve missed it’ pieces – a column on the left-hand side of the page, well-back in the paper. It said she’d been gone five weeks or so – the family were asking the public for information. The headline read: ‘Have you seen her?’ Under that was a small picture of Cassandra. The photo was grainy and black and white. It didn’t look like anybody. Next to it ran an ad for the vision impaired. The story ran nothing new; police were investigating, blah, blah, anyone with information to call Crime Stoppers or the missing persons unit. A line mentioned that the family had hired a PI to help find the girl. The last time there was a piece in the paper about the girl was on page eleven. The media attention was dropping. Things weren’t looking good.

Suddenly, the reception door opened then closed. I figured Janice had returned with a decent cup of coffee, and maybe a croissant or something. Then the footsteps approached my office door. The handle moved, and then the door flung open.

‘Hi Frank!’

‘Lauren! Jesus! What’re you doing here?’ I gasped, as she walked up to my desk.

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She lightly stroked the desk with her fingertips, and then casually glanced around the room. ‘I wanted to see you, Frank,’ she said. ‘I just got your text, so I thought I’d drop by. I felt bad about the other day too.’

My mind raced a thousand miles an hour wondering what the fuck to do with her. She was in her nurse uniform – navy blue jumper, matching pants and shirt, and black shoes. As far as I knew, Janice hadn’t seen her since Lyle’s funeral, and if she found her here now looking all playful, she’d probably start asking questions I couldn’t be bothered answering.

Lauren peered at me then the newspaper. ‘Watch’ya reading there, old man?’ she said, smiling.

‘Not much,’ I said. I had to get out of here. ‘How about we go out for breakfast? You hungry? I could do with a coffee, how ’bout you? C’mon let’s go.’ Then I jumped out of my seat and coaxed her out the door. But, for some reason the office walls felt like they were closing in – creeping toward me inch by inch.

‘Wait, I wanna read this,’ she said, turning the paper around.

‘Hurry up,’ I said, loosening my tie.

Lauren skimmed the page in front of her. ‘Oh, that poor family,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘This girl from Lorne, she’s been missing for over five weeks. It says the family are asking the public for any information. That poor girl! I wonder what happened.’

I slowly shook my head. ‘That’s the case I’m on, remember? That’s Cassandra – the missing girl. You thought I was having an affair with her. Anyway, you told me you’d read about her before. You’re familiar with it, I’m sure.’

‘I, I don’t know what I was thinking,’ she said, and lightly squeezed my hand.

Suddenly I fell into her eyes, the room fell silent and the walls stopped closing in on me. Her smile brought me in; her touch was gentle. Even the bewitching fakery of Lorne and its characters had disappeared.

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I heard Janice in the kitchenette, and then realised that it didn’t matter about whether she knew about us or not. Maybe it was time we all moved on past the guilt that centred on Lyle. But, as I peered into Lauren’s eyes, I couldn’t see my reflection in her pupils – just blackness.

‘C’mon let’s go,’ I said.

Suddenly the walls shifted again, and the smile and warmth in her eyes had gone.

‘Where shall we go, Frankie?’ she asked, as she stroked my chest with her hand.

‘The Sailors’ Rest cafe – you know overlooking the bay. It’s a nice day, we could sit out on the deck, what d’ya think?’ ‘Ok, then let’s go.’ Lauren took off downstairs toward the lobby and front door. I followed close behind, wondering if I should tell Janice that I’d be out for a tad or not.

Traffic noise hit me like a swarm of bees – the drone and fumes poisoned my senses as we walked down Moorabool Street towards the cafe. Along the way, I bought a pair of sunglasses. No name brand – twenty bucks.

The Sailor’s Rest cafe sat on Moorabool Street and Eastern Beach Road, facing Steampacket Gardens and Corio Bay. Across the bay stood the rusting hulks of past manufacturing glories of turning cars into dreams. Beyond the gardens, Cunningham Pier – with its refurbished restaurant and nightclub – if that’s what it is, had become a beacon for the city’s glitterati amongst the warbling yachts, and no place for the likes of me.

Above the entrance, a CCTV camera stared at us we opened the door and walked inside. We found a table next to the expansive windows, and ordered coffee and breakfast. Lauren gazed out the window. Light cloud scattered across the blue sky. If there was a perfect picture, I wondered if this was it. A moment later, the coffee arrived. Lauren clasped her hands around the cup and lifted it to her lips. The sunlight had brightened her face.

‘So!’ I said.

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‘So, here we are,’ she smiled.

‘Sorry, for the other day in the motel room,’ I said, as I sipped my coffee. ‘I shouldn’t have–’

She interjected, ‘We both said things we shouldn’t have,’ she said, caressing my hand before taking another sip from her cup.

Lauren tapped her fingertips on the table, glanced around, then smiled at me. I peered at her, and then placed my cup on the saucer.

‘Hey, in your message you’d left, did I hear a cat in the background?’

Lauren beamed. ‘Yeah, I bought a cat. I got her the other day from the animal rescue place in Moolap. She’s so cute! Her name’s Nika. She’s a Prussian blue.

Cats! The only ones I was interested in didn’t have any whiskers but sure knew how to play with a ball.

‘That’s nice, sounds cute,’ I said, slowly shaking my head. ‘Why’d you get a cat?’

‘I was feeling a bit lonely. She keeps me company when you’re not around,’ she smiled coyly.

‘I see. Have you got something on your mind?’

‘I, I sometimes worry about the work you do,’ she said, touching my hand.

My hand lifted away from her. ‘I’ve been doing this caper for a while. It can get a hairy sometimes. Huh, often it’s pretty dull – sitting in the car watching and waiting ’til nothing happens. But it keeps you on your toes.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I get what you do – that work, but I get the feeling that something has shaken you up,’ she said.

‘What d’ya mean?’

A waitress arrived with the breakfast we’d ordered as I considered her comment.

Lauren stopped chewing, picked up her cup and took a sip. ‘I probably shouldn’t have said anything,’ she said. 127

‘It can be hard going sometimes – long hours, odd hours. It’s no nine to five gig with four weeks’ holidays. It can be hard on everybody. I guess that’s why my ex left. But, I’m not a bloody miracle worker – just an average guy trying to make a quid.’

She eyed me back, ‘You would have life insurance wouldn’t you – with, you know, with the sorts of risks you might face?’ she asked.

I sliced into the bacon, eggs and toast on my plate. Her question had me guessing.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I had life insurance when I was married, but after that, there seemed little point.’ I raised a smile. ‘I do have a funeral plan though, just in case.’

Lauren laughed. It was like she’d unloaded a weight from her slender shoulders onto the polished concrete floor. But her laughter then quickly died as she peered out to the bay, as if waiting for its depths to swallow her up and stop the pain.

My plate was now empty, and my cup dry. It felt like a cloud had blotted out the sun.

‘Where’s this coming from – me having life insurance? I probed. ‘Did Lyle have life insurance?’

She gazed at me, but her face was blank.

‘Tell me something?’ I said.

‘What?’ she muttered, turning away from the question.

‘You’re asking me if I’ve got life insurance, where were you when Lyle was killed?’

She eyed me back. ‘What do you mean? I told you where I was – out of town.’

‘I know. But you never told me where. Why?’

‘Frank, why bring up all that stuff,’ she said toying with the knife. ‘It’s been just over a year since he died. I’m trying to move on from all that.’

‘I’m curious. I couldn’t get hold of you. Where were you?’

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Lauren shifted in her chair, and then sank a tall glass of water like she hadn’t drunk in a week. ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘I told you, I was out of town. Fine! If you must know, I was in Lorne.’

‘What were you doing down there?’

‘Seeing people! Where are you going with this, Frank?’ she snapped.

Patrons and some staff eyed us down, and then continued with their chatter.

‘Settle down, alright,’ I said calmly. ‘I’m just curious that you were in Lorne, but you didn’t return any of my calls. I thought we were going to–’

Lauren’s expression sliced through me. Her hands shook like she’d been given shock therapy. My hand slipped onto hers – removing the knife and moving any other cutlery away.

Suddenly, Lauren rattled out of her seat and stood. She didn’t look at me. ‘Not everything’s about you, Frank,’ she snapped. ‘I’m leaving.’

As I got up, my hand gently took her elbow – enough for her to take notice. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I said quietly.

Lauren shrugged me off and walked outside. Some patrons noticed the kerfuffle, took a good gawk, and then turned away as I paid the bill.

Lauren had walked up the street to a taxi stand. I wondered why she didn’t have her car – maybe it was being serviced. I’d managed to catch up to her but couldn’t hang around – I needed a change of clothes, and I wanted to see whether Casandra had maybe been caught up in sex work or similar – maybe to pay off her drug debts or something, before I had to drive back to Lorne.

‘Lauren! Lauren!’ I called, as she waved down an approaching cab.

She turned around as the taxi pulled up to the kerb.

‘I love you, Lauren,’ I said, but the words tasted hollow as they left my lips.

Lauren opened the cab door and stepped inside. I grabbed the door. The cab driver peered in the rear-view mirror, and then turned away. But Lauren just stared ahead, motionless.

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‘Why didn’t you call me? Tell me...’

Lauren closed the door, and then glanced at me through her window. Tears filled her eyes. The cab drove away.

The walk back to the office was slow. My head flittered between Lauren, Cassandra, and the girl found dead in the hostel. I felt surrounded by loss, buried in emptiness. The walk led me through Westfield plaza. The place was crowded, but I was alone amongst the chatter. I felt the gaze of the centre’s multiple CCTV cameras survey my every move out of the building’s brilliant white floors and glass-panel ceiling, and on to the street, and then shadow me up the stairs to the office. I dragged myself toward my room. Janice glanced past me and didn’t say anything. I closed the door behind me and the whispers stopped.

A few minutes later, Janice tapped on the door.

‘Yeah,’ I said, lazily.

She came in and hovered at my desk with the coffee she’d bought earlier. ‘It’s now cold,’ she said, and then placed the takeaway cup on my desk. She knew something was up. ‘I could warm it in the microwave if you like?’ she smiled softly.

‘Sure,’ I said, and passed her back the cup.

‘What’s wrong, Frank? Anything I can do?’

I looked out the window and hoped it’d open so I’d fall out and break my neck.

It didn’t happen.

My hand dug into my jacket pocket, pulled out the tobacco pouch and then rolled a smoke. Janice waited for an answer to her question. She didn’t deserve this, but I didn’t really know if I gave a crap.

‘Uh-huh, go ahead. Sorry, I need to think.’

I put my head in my hands and hoped the world would just buzz off.

Janice didn’t say anything as she closed the door. I glanced at shadows on the wall. I didn’t know what was going on, but Lauren’s silence left me more confused.

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A moment later, Janice returned with the warmed-up coffee. ‘Here you go,’ she said, setting the cup on my desk. ‘I don’t know if it’ll taste the same, but anyway...’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

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CHAPTER 15

About an hour later, I left the office – leaving Janice with little insight into my state of mind, let alone the case – and drove to my Fitzroy Street flat. It was one of a block of eight, built in the 60s with little renovation. The complex stood behind glamour homes of the upper end of Eastern Beach Road that straddled Eastern Beach. Next door’s had a view of Corio Bay. Mine didn’t. The place was close enough to walk to Lauren’s apartment – at a stretch. I didn’t see much of the neighbours due to the infrequency that I was home.

When I arrived, it felt cold, but had the reassuring smell of home and I wondered if it’d last. I roamed through the lounge, down the hallway and then dumped my bag on the bed. Between the case and the fucking real estate agent’s letter hanging over my head, I felt my life being tightened by things I couldn’t control. I wandered around, not really going anywhere, before splashing my face in the bathroom. The mirrored reflection appeared better than I expected, but my posture seemed to have stooped a little. Back in the bedroom, I dug out another suit, pairs of clean socks and fresh underwear, and then dumped what needed washing in the tub.

I rolled a smoke, fixed myself a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and then placed the SIM card in the sugar bowl for safe keeping. Candy in the sugar bowl. A moment later, I went around and watered my plants dotted about the flat, and flicked on the radio for the weather forecast. Sunshine filtered through the curtains onto the camel- coloured carpet and old brown leather couch. The forecast said it’d be 25 degrees.

About half-an-hour later, I dumped my cup and plate in the sink, packed my bag, turned off the radio, and locked the door. I called Janice from the car and told her I was heading back to Lorne. She wished me luck.

Before hitting the coastal road back to Lorne, I paid a visit to the couple of brothels and about half-a-dozen sex shops in town to see if the girl had been seen in any. Most of the adult stores were within walking distance of the office. The oldest had a blank, dark red exterior with a discrete sign, it read: Adult Bookshop.

I parked around the corner, and stepped inside. The walls were lined with plastic-covered books, magazines, comics and journals. A fella in his sixties was

132 slouched in a chair behind a counter clutching a crumpled copy of the Herald-Sun. A radio buzzed in the background playing 3AW.

‘Can I help you?’ he said, with a queasy smile. His pale, clean-shaven face shone dully under the light. His thick glasses were perched low on his nose above his striped short-sleeved shirt and black pants.

I grabbed Cassandra’s photograph from my jacket pocket and flashed it in his face. ‘Have you seen this girl amongst this lot?’ I said, gesturing toward the shelves.

‘Sorry, but I don’t view the material, I just sell it,’ he said. ‘Anyway, all this stuff is at least two years old. Nobody really comes in here anymore... it’s all on the web – for free. Though, not many places sell books on the subject – that’s my speciality.’

‘What’s under the counter?’

‘There’s nothing under here.’

‘Then you won’t mind if I take a look.’ I shoved him aside and opened a couple of drawers.

‘Excuse me!’ he said, getting up. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? I’ve got a good mind to call–’

‘No, you won’t,’ I said, as I opened a couple of drawers. ‘I’ve been hired to find this girl, and if you’ve got something here with her face on it – you’re gone.’

The drawers revealed nothing but a dog-eared Dan Brown novel, a pack of Benson & Hedges, a roll of paper for the till, and several brown paper bags.

‘You got any snuff videos or similar?’ I said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t stock any of that sort of thing – it’s not legal. I don’t even know anyone who would. Everything here is rated R, anything more than that is at that other place, next to the highway. Satisfied?’

I gave him my card. ‘If you see anything with this girl on it, call me.’

I left, and walked to the other stores in the area. They stocked novelty sex items – games, toys, and dress-ups. They didn’t know anything. Then I drove out to the place

133 the old fella in the bookshop had mentioned – a department store premises, next to the North Geelong railway junction fly-over. The shop was located amongst light industry and warehouses now selling antiques and second-hand clothes. I walked in and found an Aladdin’s cave of carnality. There was the usual shit – games, toys, flavoured rubbers, but also bondage gear, rubber, latex – even a gimp suit, and a cage. The shelves offered a variety of films and magazines – none featured Cassandra in any starring role.

A woman behind the counter peered at me, along with a couple of customers who’d wandered in. I strode over to the counter and showed the woman Cassandra’s photograph. She shook her head. She said she’d recognised the girl’s face from the newspaper, but that was it.

‘Most of my customers are actually women,’ she said. ‘I think men are too embarrassed to walk in, whereas women don’t care. I think they actually take charge when it comes to this department. Often we have couples come in and view our range – they have a good time.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said. ‘Stock any snuff videos or similar stuff?’

‘No, they’re illegal. Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a small clientele that seek that material. All our merchandise comes from our warehouse in Canberra – the films are mostly made overseas – America or Europe, usually, though I do know of some local product, pretty tame really, but certainly not the stuff that you’re talking about. As I said, that’s illegal.’

The information sound genuine enough so I thanked her and hit the next place on my list. My next stop was one of the three legal brothels that were listed in the phone book and on the web. There were probably others around – sly, backyard operations – but I didn’t know where they were, and doubted the cops knew where they were either.

The brothel was a short drive away into an industrial estate in North Shore. Once there, I parked across the street, waved at a pair of barking pit bulls that guarded the locked gate of a disused warehouse, and walked through the brothel’s steel gate. I was met by a big Maori fella at the front door. He stood about six feet tall and just as wide.

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He told me to enjoy myself.

I didn’t argue.

Inside, I was met by the madam – a short woman in some floral number with a scratchy voice. She introduced me to about half a dozen girls – mostly Vietnamese – who paraded themselves in front of me. I felt sick watching the show. They appeared like a hodgepodge of addicts, users, and has-beens. I showed them the photograph, but they just shook their jaded faces. I left them my card.

‘Geez fulla, thet wuz queck, eh bro,’ the big Maori bloke said, as I walked out.

‘Yeah, in like Flynn,’ I smiled.

‘Eh?’

‘Nevermind.’

After grabbing a coffee from some drive-thru joint to help wash away the taste in my mouth, I paid a visit to the other two bordellos – both on Malop Street, in town. The first took me up a flight of dingy stairs before I reached a small, brightly lit reception area. The place had a reputation as being the oldest in town and was known as the ‘stairway to heaven’. I asked around but got nowhere. Again, the girls were a mix of Asian as well as local talent. Like the last hole, it was tasteless and reeked of something that I just couldn’t put my finger on.

A short walk from there led me to a place that resembled a suburban house, except for the bright red light beside the front door. I gave the door a knock and was greeted by a middle-aged woman. She had a cold face and piercing eyes. She wore skirt suit and heels. She looked like she meant business. I figured it was her business. The reception was clean and tasteful with lace curtains and a plush-looking couch. The odour of cheap perfume wafted through the air. The madam offered me a bowl of dinner mints. I accepted.

I showed the woman Cassandra’s photograph. ‘Have you seen her before?’ I said, sucking on the mint.

‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen her,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t work here, but she’s welcome to join us – new faces are always welcome.’

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The madam introduced me to her girls – they were in a better condition than those in the previous establishments. They didn’t know Cassandra either.

I left my card, then got in the car and headed for Lorne.

About twenty minutes into the drive, my phone rang – Lauren’s number appeared. I put the phone to my ear and heard her speak.

‘Hel-lo! Fwank? Fwrank, hiyaah, hah, ha! You there? Hel-lo you old prick! Ha, ha, old prick! Bye Frank... Call me.’

She then hung up.

I slung the phone onto the passenger seat then dropped my hands over the wheel. Her voice was slurred and grainy. She was a bad drunk. I guessed she’d left work, given them some excuse, and then headed for the nearest bottle shop. What was she doing? Christ Lauren! I didn’t know what I was doing with her or what to do with her any more. Along the way, I glanced over the bridge to the rowing clubs that straddled the Barwon River before taking the expressway, out of town. The drive was fast and smooth.

The radio had been rambling something about nothing, before I turned the dial – Nick Cave then bellowed and snarled Do You Love Me? I wondered if Lauren was listening. I doubted it. The weather stayed sunny, but it felt like it could change at any time.

The drive to Anglesea was good enough, but from then on, the weather had turned. It’d grown dark – the clouds had thickened, and were full of wet. Between Anglesea and Fairhaven, the skies dumped rain, hard. Not long later, I pulled up near the Aireys Inlet lighthouse – the rain had stopped and I got out for a minute and took in the view. Ahead, the road snaked its ways along the coast, around suicidal cliffs and through dense scrub. Lorne jutted out from the coastline like a dull jewel. A moment later, steam rose from the bitumen as I hit the road.

I’d stopped thinking about Lauren, and thought about the Erskines. At the Great Ocean Road memorial, my watch read around one thirty. Lorne was now just down the road. About fifteen minutes later, I was back at the motel. I’d grabbed my bag from the boot, went to my room and found the place quiet and tidy. I dumped my stuff on the

136 bed, fixed myself a drink from the mini-bar, and then dialled Larry Erskine’s number. I told him that I’d be there in an hour.

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CHAPTER 16

Traffic was slow along Mountjoy Parade with tourists and locals jostling for car parks and places to go before the rain hit town. Eventually, I found a park across the street from Erskine’s real estate agency. I killed the engine, but kept the radio talking while I lit a smoke. The diesel fumes from a never-ending procession of tourist coaches that bustled through town left an acrid smell in my nose and a bitter taste in my mouth that even the smoke couldn’t kill. A throng of Chinese tourists spread onto the street on their way to somewhere. Suddenly my phone rang – I hadn’t seen the number for a couple of weeks. It didn’t surprise me to get the call, but I let it ring a while before I answered.

‘Carver,’ I said, knowing who it was on the end of the line.

‘Detective Senior-Constable Roy Lane, Frank,’ he said in a dull drawl. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Well, to what do we owe the honour?’ I said grimly, wondering what he wanted.

‘Still keeping Janice on her toes?’

‘I do my best.’

‘Good, good. Now, reason for my call–’

‘I did wonder.’

‘C’mon, Frank play nice. I hear on the grape vine you’re getting a tan down at Lorne, that right?’

‘Maybe once the weather improves, but who knows what goes on down here. Anyway, how’d you hear that?’

‘Mate, you know what cops are like – can’t stop talking – probably talk more than you do.’

‘Huh, you might be right about that. Alright, so I’m in Lorne, what of it?’

‘You’re looking into a missing person case, I understand.’

‘So? I was hired to investigate, any problem?’ 138

‘No, I don’t have a problem – you do what you need to do, Frank. Anything you want to tell me about?’

I blew a mouthful of smoke towards the phone in my hand. ‘No, not much at this stage,’ I said.

‘You keeping out of trouble, keeping your nose clean?’

Jesus! ‘There hasn’t been anything so far.’

Lane seemed to have dismissed what I’d said.

‘That’s good, Frank,’ he said. ‘Hmm, Lorne, that’s a fair drive. You know, our people in missing persons are looking into it.’

‘I know. They’re not doing a good job though are they – she’s still missing.’

He ignored my comment.

I killed the smoke in the ashtray, and then slid the key from the ignition. ‘So, I take it it hasn’t come across your desk then?’ I said.

‘No, should it? What are you finding, Frank?’

‘I don’t know yet. Look, I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Frank?’

I hung up, climbed out of the car, and avoided getting hit by a vehicle, as I walked over to Erskine’s office. Lane’s call scratched at my brain. He was alright for a cop, but what did he want? Had he got some details about the case and was doing his own fishing around? His call left me uneasy.

The office windows of Erskine Real Estate were dressed with lines of photographs of houses up for sale and rent around the traps, attached to gleaming metal wires and suspended under an array of LED spotlights. The place looked like Myers at Christmas. Behind the glitter, office staff, and sales reps, incessantly gabbed with clients in person or over the phone as they massaged their egos the best way they could ’til they reached maximum effort and spat out their best hook for a sale. A bell dinged as I opened the door and headed for the counter. Behind a large computer monitor sat a dolled-up blonde, sipping coffee from a takeaway cup and keying in information about

139 some dive in Anglesea going for seven figures. In the background, a radio buzzed with voices over songs with questionable lyrics.

‘Hello, can I help you?’ the blonde said, with a fake smile.

Her hair was blown back like she’d been stuck behind a 737 for half an hour, and her make-up appeared like it’d been splashed on with a paint brush. She wore a white blouse, black pants and expensive-looking jewellery. I didn’t buy it.

‘Yeah, I have an appointment with Lawrence Erskine,’ I said. ‘Is he in?’

‘Just a moment,’ she said. She picked up her desk phone and dialled a two-digit number.

Then from the corner of my eye, I noticed someone come toward me.

‘Mr Carver, good to see you,’ a female voice said. ‘Larry and I have been expecting you.’

My head turned, but I realised who it was. ‘Hello, Rebecca!’

She took my arm, made some small talk with the blonde-haired woman and then led me away from the front counter. She had me in her black one piece to her knees and black stilettos. Her hair lulled on her shoulders before she flicked it away from her face. The receptionist looked on as we stepped toward a short flight of stairs up to Erskine’s office.

The place was clean, with a ready order of Erskine Real Estate merchandise to be dished out to any new client that walked through the door. The floors were covered in some blue-coloured carpet, while the walls were off-white with scattered framed photographs of Erskine and his family. On another wall were pictures of staff who’d won awards for selling the highest number of over-priced dives. Their smiles said it all. The furniture looked like it’d come from an IKEA catalogue – functional, but not exactly comfortable. The staff were well dressed, and manicured and, by the gleam of their teeth, well capped.

Erskine’s door was open. He sat behind his desk, gabbing on the phone to someone about a rental in Aireys Inlet going for a song. He wore a salesman’s garb –

140 crisp white shirt, blue tie, and grey pants. His tie matched the carpet; his pants matched the colour of his hair. His grey suit jacket hung from the back of his chair.

I followed Rebecca inside.

Erskine’s phone conversation abruptly ended. ‘Ah. G’day, Mr Carver,’ he said, as we shook hands.

‘Mr Erskine.’

‘Please take a seat, don’t stand on my account,’ he said. ‘And it’s Larry, mate. Anyway, Becs here tells me you’re doing a good job – you’ve found some clues or something?’

‘I’ve made some connections between a couple of incidents that happened before and since Cassandra went missing,’ I said, and sat in a steel-frame chair.

Rebecca sat next to me. She crossed her legs and watched Larry’s face, then turned toward me.

‘Don’t call me Becs dear, it doesn’t look good in front of the clients,’ she said.

‘Oh yeah, sorry love,’ he smiled. ‘So, what’ve you find out?’

‘I found a ripped-up postcard and a SIM card in Cassandra’s room at Deakin. The SIM had been well-hidden.’

‘Well you found it, Mr Carver,’ he said and smiled.

Rebecca peered at him, and then at me, before she lightly touched Erskine’s hand.

‘What was on it, Mr Carver, on the SIM card?’ Rebecca asked.

‘Oddly, there was no numbers, names or addresses, but there was some footage of Cassandra with Simon and Sophie at the beach. I guess Simon was holding the phone and taking a video of the girls, then it stopped–’

‘What d’ya mean it stopped?’ asked Erskine. ‘Did it break or somethin’?’

‘No, not exactly. Now, what I’m going to say now will be upsetting, so brace yourself. Actually, you’ll probably want to close the door.’

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‘Oh God, I hope she’s alright,’ he said. He roughly got out of his chair, closed the door and then sat again.

Rebecca lifted her hand from Erskine’s and brushed her hair from her face, and then glanced away.

I told them what was on the footage, what Cassandra was doing, and about the voices on the footage telling her what to do.

Erskine almost collapsed onto his desk. ‘My little girl, what’s happened to her?’ he murmured, his hand trembling.

Tears welled in his eyes and his mouth quivered. Then Rebecca got up and comforted him.

‘Did she look alright?’ Rebecca asked as he voice choked on emotions. ‘I mean–’

‘She appeared as if she was on drugs, but I couldn’t tell you what,’ I said.

Rebecca stroked Erskine’s back, kissed the back of his head, and then sat back in her chair next to me.

‘Why do say that, Mr Carver?’ she said, crossing her legs.

‘Cassandra had a look in her eyes as she looked at the camera. But before she went missing, she must’ve hidden the SIM card before things got worse. Maybe she had help. I don’t know.’

Erskine composed himself and cleared his throat. He rubbed his eyes and then drank some water. ‘So do you reckon you’re onto something then, Mr Carver?’ he croaked.

‘Maybe, but I don’t know what yet. The postcard in her room also matched one found in a room at the backpacker hostel where a young woman had overdosed. I’m trying to determine if there’s a connection and who’s behind this all, let alone why. I don’t even know if I’m close.’

‘Ah mate, whatever it takes,’ Erskine said. ‘But, but you reckon she’s still alive, right?’

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‘I think I do.’

Erskine’s eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together. ‘Did you hear that Becs, he reckons he’s close to finding Cassandra,’ he said.

She smiled at him. ‘That’s wonderful, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘But darling, please don’t call me Becs.’

‘Oh, sorry love,’ he said woefully.

Erskine turned to me, smiling like a dog at its master. ‘So, you’ll find her, won’t you Mr Carver?’ he said. ‘I mean, that’s what you private eye blokes do, innit?’

I raised my hand a little. ‘I’m trying.’

‘Good onya mate, that’s I what I want to hear,’ he smiled. ‘I know you will.’

‘I must say, Mr Erskine–’

He raised his hand. ‘Mate, please, it’s Larry,’ he said. ‘All my friends call me Larry.’

‘Ok. I wanted to say, Larry, that I didn’t expect the cheque to be quite the sum.’

‘Mate, as I said – whatever it takes,’ he said. ‘I guess you’re staying at some shithole that doesn’t have free pay-TV, is that right? Where’ya staying again?’

‘The Best Western, just on the outskirts of town.’

Rebecca leaned in, ‘Oh yeah, so you said,’ she said with sly grin.

‘Well, I’m not here to watch TV. The place is fine. It’s clean with a decent bed and food, that’s all that matters.’

‘Yeah, but you do watch telly don’tchya?’ Erskine smiled.

‘A bit in the morning perhaps, but I’m usually too busy trying to figure out why people do the things they do. Before I turn in, I might kill an hour or so over a crossword with a glass of Scotland’s finest.’

Erskine laughed, and then laughed some more. It looked like he’d bust a gut. His laugh appeared as a release from what I’d told him about the footage of his little girl.

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Rebecca let out a laugh like a galah, and then gazed at me with a wry grin. ‘You’re a funny man, Mr Carver,’ she said, lightly brushing my thigh with her hand. ‘I like a man with a sense of humour. I was just saying to Larry the other day that there’s not enough humour around these days. Do you agree?’

‘Maybe.’ I didn’t get the hysterics.

Erskine fluffed about over his desk. ‘Huh, I don’t remember that love,’ he said, confused.

Rebecca rolled her eyes, and then flashed me a wink, before Erskine sat back in his chair and checked his watch. ‘I could go a cup of coffee, what d’ya reckon love?’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you could pop out and grab us a weak cuppacheeno could’ya? Would you like one, Mr Carver?’

I glanced past Erskine toward Rebecca and gave her a wink, ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

Rebecca stood up. ‘No, that’s fine,’ she said, and glanced at her watch. ‘How do you take it, Mr Carver?’

‘Black. Thanks.’

‘Okay, I’ll be back soon,’ she said and blew Erskine a kiss.

‘I don’t suppose you have a little boys’ room here, do you?’ I said.

Erskine smiled. ‘Out the door, second on the left, you can’t miss it,’ he said.

I stepped out of his office and into the hallway. Rebecca wandered down to receptionist, then back up the stairs towards me.

‘Lost?’ she said.

‘No, the little boys’ room,’ I said bashfully.

Rebecca directed me before she headed to the back door. A moment later, I heard her talking to someone outside. The door was left ajar, but not wide enough to see.

I waited a moment then eased the door open further to see the staff car park. Rebecca was talking to a young woman behind a parked car. My view of the other 144 woman was obscured. The pair then shifted, before Rebecca lightly kissed the woman’s lips. I could only see the back of the other woman’s head. Then they walked off in opposite directions. Suddenly, the other woman came into view, but her face was turned the other way.

I realised Erskine was waiting for me. But then the woman turned. Her face was exposed. It was Sophie. My mind spun trying to figure out why Rebecca was with her. A sense of dread hit me as I closed the door. The picture didn’t look right – it felt wrong. As far as I knew, the girl was Cassandra and Simon’s friend. She may have met Rebecca few times, acquaintances perhaps. But for Rebecca to give Sophie a kiss, seemed too weird to me. What was she doing with Rebecca?

A moment later, I stepped back into Erskine’s office.

‘You all right, mate?’ he said. ‘What happened – had a bad curry and it’s given you the Johnny Cash treatment?’

I smiled. ‘Hey?’

Erskine laughed, ‘You know – ring of fire.’

‘Ha, no, I just–’

‘Ah, good timing love,’ he interjected, as Rebecca walked in with a cardboard tray of takeaway coffee.

‘Sorry mate, you were saying?’ he said, as Rebecca handed out the coffee.

‘I was going to say, that I just–’

‘Sugar, Mr Carver, or are you sweet enough?’ she smiled.

‘No. Thanks.’

‘May I ask you a question, Mr Carver?’ she said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘In your work, I imagine it must get quite dangerous sometimes.’

I sipped my coffee. ‘Yeah, it can be sometimes, but not very often.’

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Rebecca stroked her cheek. ‘So, in your work, do you ever carry a gun?’ she said.

Erskine placed his coffee on the desk.

‘Not if I can help it, but sometimes,’ I said, before taking another sip.

‘Are you carrying a gun now?’ she said, sipped her drink and then gave me a long gaze.

She waited for a response.

‘What if I was?’

Rebecca wriggled in her chair, and placed her cup on the desk. Her eyes widened as she licked her already moistened lips. ‘Ooh, how exciting,’ she said. ‘What sort is it? Is it big? Can I see it?’

Erskine piped up, ‘Argh, leave him alone, Rebecca. As if he’s gonna get his gun out and start wavin’ it around.’

She glared at him. ‘Be quiet Larry, I’m talking to Mr Carver. I want to know about his gun. Is it heavy?’

‘Alright, that’s enough,’ he snarled.

The pair started arguing. I stood and mentioned something about following up a couple of leads. Embarrassed, Erskine apologised for their behaviour. He shook my hand and asked if I could keep him informed. I told him I would, and then walked toward the front door. Footsteps soon followed. I turned around and found that they belonged to Rebecca. She clutched my elbow as I opened the door and stepped outside, before she closed the door behind us.

‘Tell me Mr Carver, when are we gonna have that nightcap?’ she asked, as the street noise hit my ears. ‘You said you would, when I asked you at my place the other night, remember?’

That was about a week ago. ‘Sure, soon maybe.’

She moved closer and gave me a look that suggested she wanted something real bad, something her old man couldn’t give her.

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‘Hmm, I know where you are,’ she said slyly. ‘Perhaps I could drop by sometime and you could show me what’s on that SIM card you’ve found. But be careful, won’t you, Mr Carver.’

‘I’ll try,’ I smiled coyly.

She opened the door and sauntered back into the office. Rebecca left me feeling good, but a little strange. It was generally not good practice to hook up with your client’s wife, but then I wasn’t exactly a nominee for PI of the year.

Back in the car, I drove along Mountjoy Parade looking for Sophie amongst the locals, tourists, and out-of-towners, then stopped, got out and weaved my way through the foot traffic. Time felt slow as I looked through shop windows and along the street for Sophie.

Then I saw her.

She’d crossed a road. My pace quickened as I tried to catch-up, but she was moving faster than I’d expected. People then started to notice – me in my suit in a slow jog, as they meandered in shorts and t-shirts. Then I thought I heard my name from somewhere – I turned, but then stumbled into a revolving postcard stand, knocking it over. I found my feet and kept looking for Sophie, but she was too quick. She was nowhere in sight.

My hands groped at the postcards, placing them back onto the stand. A passerby stopped and helped. She handed me the last postcard and I thanked her for her trouble. I flipped it over – it was the same as I’d found in Cassandra’s dorm and in the room at the backpacker hostel: Greetings from Lorne.

The wind had picked up a little as I made my way back to the car. The Valiant rumbled to life as I drove around the town’s back streets looking for Sophie, but found nothing. Then I hit the main drag and noticed an old Laser with the same plates that’d been parked in Anne’s driveway the other night. I followed the car with a discernible distance before it led me out to the Grand Pacific Hotel. I pulled over and watched the car come to a stop before Sophie stepped out and headed toward a door. The joint was bigger than I expected – double-storey with a wide balcony, veiled by wrought iron fretwork. Several windows and glass doors opened onto the veranda, which swept around two sides of the brick monolith – shading the entrance and a parade of 147 windows that faced Louttit Bay like a wide-brimmed hat. The car park was large enough to get lost in.

I left the car and headed toward the bar entrance, then veered around to the side and found three more parked cars. I recognised one: the grey Commodore that had sat in the motel car park, outside my room, along with Sophie’s Laser. The door she escaped behind was dark green and came with a ten-digit keypad. A sign above it read: Private. The door was locked.

Suddenly, the door opened and a big burley bloke appeared. ‘You right, mate?’ he said, like he was chewing steak. He moved around like a great sack of spuds. He stepped into the carpark, the sun behind him like a halo. The pier shone in the background as it stretched out to the sea.

I raised my hand above my eyes, but couldn’t make out who he was. ‘Yeah, just looking for the entrance to the bar,’ I said casually.

He stood glaring, fixed in a black t-shirt, jeans, and thick steel-capped boots. Then he moved closer, reeking of stale beer and cheap cigarettes. ‘You’ve walked past it,’ he said.

I turned to go back toward the bar entrance. ‘Right,’ I said, and strode past him.

Then the green door opened again. I turned.

I recognised the figure. ‘Sophie?’ I said.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

‘I could ask you the same question. What’s going on? How do you know Rebecca?’

There was no answer, but her expression revealed something more than words. Then she disappeared behind the door.

I went after her but the guy grabbed my arm. ‘It says private, cunt,’ he snarled.

My fist swung at his face but missed, before his crashed into the side of my head. My brain shook in my skull and I struggled to find my feet, before I landed a blow to his soft guts. He cradled his belly as I belted his head. He appeared dazed.

148

Suddenly, I realised where I’d seen him – he was in the Commodore outside my motel room.

I pulled the .38 from inside my jacket and shoved it into the side of his belly – somewhere between his liver and pancreas. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ I said. ‘What’re you doing with the girl?’

He gave me a greasy smile. ‘Wouldn’t you like to fucking know,’ he said, then spat a gob of blood on the gravel.

‘How about you tell me or I’ll leave you with a fucking hole. Now what the fuck’s going on? What’s she doing here?’

The guy quickly recovered. ‘You haven’t got the balls to use that,’ he said. ‘You’re not gonna shoot me, you fuckin’ pissant. Who the fuck do you think you are, eh?’

It hit me that the last person to say those words was Lauren. My vision grew fuzzy around the edges. I stepped back and gazed at the gun in my hand. Suddenly, he charged at me. I quickly dodged and belted him on the back of his head, knocking him out.

I rushed over and tried the door – locked, and then banged on it repeatedly. ‘Sophie, open up.’

Nothing.

I started to pick the lock, before voices came my way. My head pounded as I made my way around to the bar entrance, opened the door and wandered in. The fella behind the bar gave me a quizzical look as I tried to find another door to where Sophie could be.

‘Hello, can I help you, mate?’ the barman said with a strong English accent.

‘The green door outside, where does that lead to?’ I asked urgently. ‘Is there another door here that leads to it?’

‘Err, no. That door goes down to the cellars. There’s not a door in here, as far as I know anyway, that leads down there. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks so I’m still finding where things are me self.’

149

‘Right,’ I said, and then I left.

Sophie was involved in something. I wondered if anybody else knew.

150

CHAPTER 17

After copping a whack, I wanted to get back to the motel and drown myself in codeine, but the drive through town was slow with school traffic and sightseers clogging the streets. When I arrived, I found some paracetamol and downed a couple more with a bottle of water. My body collapsed on the bed before my aching head wandered with images of Rebecca, Sophie, and a girl once called Cassandra, now known as Candy. Perhaps it was the blonde hair, but her image clouded with that of Lauren.

Lauren. Her last message was soaked in booze and grounded in prescription drugs. I couldn’t blame her – I’d questioned her about her whereabouts during her husband’s death, and why she wouldn’t return my calls. Guilt then hit me like a wave. Shadows crept along the walls and spilled onto the soft carpet. There was no noise outside; not even the hum of passing vehicles along the road into town – it was like everything had been turned off.

Suddenly, the room felt cold. A shadow crawled across the ceiling like a giant spider towards the walls. Memories punctured my brain of when he first arrived at my office...

The reception door opened. Through the walls of my office, I heard Janice greet him as he walked in. After some small talk, she knocked, and then opened my door. ‘Frank, Mr Bowman is here,’ she called.

I moved away from the window and its view of the busy intersection below. ‘Alright, show him in,’ I said.

Janice stood aside and let him pass by her into my doorway.

His feet sounded heavy on the wooden floor. ‘G’day, Lyle Bowman,’ he said. ‘How’re you going?’ He stuck out his hand from beside his leg.

I leaned over my desk and shook his hand. His large hand felt bony and rough. He looked like he’d fallen out of a Western – worn leather boots, pressed faded-blue jeans, a white, open-neck shirt and even a bloody hat. I eased back in my chair, realising I had on the same clothes from yesterday – a crumpled charcoal suit, white shirt, and loose dark-grey tie.

‘What’s with the look?’ I smirked. 151

‘Yeah, I wasn’t sure what was appropriate for this sort of gig,’ Bowman said. ‘I mean, a lot of the time is spent in the car, so I guess this is what I’d wear, you know to be comfortable in the job. If you know what I mean.’

‘Well this isn’t some outfit for cowboys. What about meeting clients? I know it’s not exactly a typical office job, but I wasn’t expecting bloody Crocodile Dundee either.’

Bowman laughed. ‘Yeah, sorry,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should’ve worn a tie.’

Huh, another smartarse. He’d fit in, no worries.

He sat in front of my desk, placed his duffle bag on the floor, then took off his hat and settled it on his lap. His face was sturdy but lightly freckled like some big kid. His hair was blonde and wavy – he resembled a surfer who’d just breezed in on the morning tide. I didn’t recognise his cologne.

We talked shop a while before I asked for his Private Inquiry Agent licence. He handed it to me – even in the photo, he wore the hat. A smile creased my face before I handed it back. Then I asked about his home life – whether the job would affect it or not.

‘You married, got a girlfriend?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, why’s that?’ Bowman replied.

‘Well, around here you could be working all hours – it’s no nine-to-five gig. It might be a bit more money, but it’s not the most very family friendly job around.’

Bowman eased back in his chair. ‘I know what’ya mean,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I was a bit over that type of work – you know, clock on, clock off. That’s why I applied.’

The spare desk sat in the corner of the room.

‘Look, I’m still interviewing, but you seem like a straight shooter,’ I said. ‘If you get the gig, you’d have that desk over there and, then after a while you just might get your name on the front door next to mine. What do you think?’

‘Mate, I mean Mr Carver, that’d be great!’ he said.

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‘Well, if you got it, you wouldn’t call me Mr Carver, just Frank would do. Remember, if you got it, we’d be colleagues – partners.’

We stood and shook hands. After he’d left, I returned to the window and watched him cross the street to his car – a faded-white Kingswood Ute. A blonde woman had stepped out and leant her body against it. She was slim, good looking – I guessed his wife. She kissed his cheek. Then, just before she slid back into the car, she glanced up at my window. I stepped back as they drove away...

The shadows didn’t worry me anymore. I didn’t care. Bowman was dead. There was nothing I could do about that. I closed my eyes, and then opened them again. The shadows were gone, the warmth had returned, and the buzz of traffic filled my ears. With Lauren, I realised that we were both lost souls looking for something in others that we couldn’t find in ourselves. I sent her a text to see if she was okay and waited for a reply.

The pain in my head wasn’t quite so bad so I fixed myself a drink – scotch and milk, and then tried again to get my brain thinking about the numbers I’d noticed in the classifieds. They weren’t phone numbers – too short. They didn’t seem to be coordinates to anywhere, either. Another thing I didn’t know.

A newly rolled cigarette hung from my lips as a plume of smoke whispered into the air. Suddenly, the phone rang. I ambled over and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Hello?’

No one. I put the receiver back in the cradle, and then dialled reception and asked if they’d put a call through to my room. They said they hadn’t. I walked away as the cigarette burned itself to death between my lips, and then wandered back to the phone. I picked up the receiver and peered at the keypad, eyeballing the numbers and the series of letters below.

Had the code been hidden in plain sight?

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CHAPTER 18

My phone buzzed with a message from Lauren. Her text read something about wanting me to be sorry, and when could we get together to make up. I guess she’d sobered up.

Ha, ‘make up’! That meant a good time in bed, and a bloody mean hangover. But I was willing to suffer for it. I replied, saying how bad I felt. That we should talk. I wanted to see her; to see her in one of those bright cotton skirts she’d occasionally wear, and then watch her slowly take it off. But then her words echoed in my head, distorted the image. The words still felt like a kick in the guts.

I found my note pad and peered at the buttons on the phone keypad, and then scribbled the numbers and their corresponding letters. Lauren’s image began to dissolve.

The numbers from the classifieds were 3-3-8-4-7-4. After mixing and matching the letters around, it read: FETISH.

Fetish? What the fuck?

I needed to find Sophie. I figured she had to know something about what was going on.

After I’d followed Sophie to the Grand Pacific Hotel earlier, the idea that maybe the joint was the intended meet began to cross my mind.

My watch read around five. There was a chance she was at Larry Erskine’s house with Simon.

Shadows stretched long into the distance as I drove to Erskine’s address. The weather had changed again since this morning. Rain hit the windscreen with large spats, before dumping it by the bucket. The wet had swept in from the sea toward the rainforest ridge that towered over the town. My car was becoming my solace in this carnival ride of a town – a hollow of neon lights, expensive food, and plastic souvenirs – where nothing made sense, and the weather was as strange as the people.

Eventually, the car ground to a stop outside Erskine’s joint. I rolled a smoke and let the smoke plumes fill the car as Lauren’s voice swirled in my brain. Suddenly, the rain stopped along with Lauren’s whispers. I climbed out, flicked the cigarette butt

154 into the flooded stormwater drain, and crossed Erskine’s sodden, manicured lawn towards his front door.

The house was dark and threatening, like an entrance to a cave. No one appeared to be home, or if they were, they didn’t want anyone to know about it. I didn’t like the place – all glass, steel, and timber, like an expensive stage production – where it was anyone’s guess who was performing. The air was cool, with the aroma of soaked wattle and dripping eucalyptus as the shrill of insects, frogs, and the flutter of chirping birds pierced my ears following the downpour. Dark clouds had gathered for an early night, and the lack of street lighting didn’t help. A storm brewed out in the Strait with cracks of lightning and drums of thunder. The ocean was a deep grey, with peaks of foamy white; its expanse appeared malevolent and soulless.

I lifted the brass knocker and tapped twice. Music suddenly came from inside, perhaps upstairs. Then the subtle hum of the creatures around me suddenly fell silent.

The door clicked unlocked.

I felt like I was being watched. Then the door swung open. Simon stood in the shadows of the doorway. The only light appeared to come from the kitchen. Metal- framed glasses slid down his greasy nose ’til he propped them up with his middle finger. I wondered if he was giving me the bird, the little prick.

His short reddish hair appeared darker and framed his sweaty face. He clung to the door jam in his black t-shirt, jeans and socks. He smiled gingerly before his thick lips parted.

‘Mr Carver,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘Do you have any more information about my sister? I really want her back you know; I miss her. You’re still looking for her, right?’

His voice had a low, girlish tone. His breathing then calmed as he wiped his brow with the back of his pale, sweaty hand.

Music resonated down from upstairs – a heavy beat, syncopated rhythms – it didn’t ring any bells. I didn’t like it.

‘You bet, I’m still looking for her,’ I said. ‘Is your Dad or Rebecca in, Simon?’

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‘No, they’re not in.’

I smirked, ‘So they’ve left you all alone, have they? Sophie here?’

He scratched at his arm. ‘Err, yeah. No, she’s not here.’

I couldn’t be bothered with any crap – even if his old man wrote the cheques.

He stopped scratching. ‘So, can I help you with something?’ he said.

‘Do you know where your Dad or Rebecca is?’

‘Yeah, Dad had some meeting with a client, probably over dinner somewhere, and Rebecca – I don’t know – she doesn’t tell me much about what she does.’

‘Do you mind if I come inside; I don’t really want to be out here in the wet, let alone being eyeballed by gawking neighbours.’

‘I dunno. I’m busy.’

‘I’m not into games, so how about you let me in. I have some questions.’

Simon peered past me toward the darkness of the street. ‘Don’t I have to have a parent or guardian around?’

‘Not unless you’re under sixteen.’

He turned slightly. ‘Alright, but I’m busy,’ he said.

I followed him into the dark hallway, then to the lounge room and noticed the glamour photo of Rebecca on a side table. The couch still had a new polish to it, but its showroom smell had faded to the musky dryness of dead skin. From the kitchen light, Rebecca’s picture drew me in; her face seemed supple and held loneliness in her eyes. I wanted to keep her from feeling lonely. The music grew louder as we approached the kitchen; I still couldn’t make it out.

‘Hey? Why all the darkness?’ I asked, as I glanced around.

‘I like the dark,’ he said. ‘I guess it’s about being better able to see the truth in people, you know psychological. Psychology is one of my subjects at school.’

Simon’s face was a pock-marked moonscape.

‘You like psychology, do you, Simon?’ I probed. 156

‘I do,’ he said. He hovered next to the bench. ‘Um, do you want a drink or something?’

‘Yeah coffee – if it’s not too much trouble?’

‘Nah, that’s ok.’

Simon filled the kettle, grabbed milk and a container of ground coffee from the fridge, scooped out a couple of spoons of the dark powder and tipped them into a plunger. The aroma filled the kitchen. Then he opened a cupboard, grabbed two mugs, and then poured the hot water into the plunger.

Silence.

Simon opened a sugar container, took four cubes and dropped them into his mug, then poured in about half a cup of milk, then poured the coffee.

‘How do you have it, Mr Carver?’ he asked.

‘Black. No sugar. So, what’ve ya been doing?’

His eyes flicked about the room, then towards the stairs. ‘Nothing, nothing just homework,’ he said, anxiously.

‘Important, is it?’

‘You could say that.’

I sipped my coffee. It wasn’t all that bad.

‘What is it you wanted to ask me, Mr Carver?’

‘I’m looking for Sophie. I thought she might be here, you know with your old man out and everything,’ I said with a sly grin.

‘Yeah, she said she was gonna come around but had some stuff to do,’ he said.

‘Like?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Like what? What’s she doing?’

157

He smiled, ‘Don’t know. You know what girls are like, Mr Carver – they only tell you what you need to know.’

‘I guess. She’s a local girl, isn’t she?’

‘Yeah, she lives on the other side of town from Mum’s.’

‘What’s her place like, nice is it?’

‘Yeah, it’s a two bedroom unit – nothing great; no view, if that’s what you mean. Is she in trouble or something?’

‘I don’t think so. Tell me something, how does she get on with Rebecca?’

‘I dunno, not much to say really. They get on okay, I suppose. Sophie’s not here that often as I’m at the residence in Geelong. Why?’

‘Just wondering. Tell me, you said Rebecca never tells you anything – why’s that?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, and slurped-up his mug of treacle.

‘Do you ask her?’

‘Nuh, why?’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t like her – thinks she’s something special, but she’s not.’

‘What d’ya mean by that?’

‘Well living in Lorne, you can tell who’s from the established families and who’s not – and she’s not.’

‘How long had your Dad known her before they married?’

Simon flittered between shadow and light, and then hovered like an apparition waiting to haunt the living.

‘Hmm, I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Cassandra and I were living with Mum at the time, but that didn’t work out too well; I don’t think it was very long.’

‘What, a year or two – something like that?’

158

‘No, I don’t know, maybe; it felt more like months. She just moved in and took over. She got real friendly with us, especially Cassandra, like she was her big sister or something.’

He took another sip, and then clammed up.

‘Okay, that happens I guess, and then what?’ I asked. ‘Any information may help in finding you sister.’

He wiped his nose, and then cleared his throat. ‘Um, well after a while, I began to see through it. I don’t know, I could be wrong – I mean sometimes she’s really nice – making us meals, taking care of Dad – he’s getting on a bit, but then sometimes she’s just a bitch.’

‘You don’t seem to like her much, do you? Are you jealous or something?’

A blaze of crimson ran across his face and he stared blankly at me like I wasn’t there. ‘No!’ he said. ‘I just, I just – she’s just not as good as Mum, that’s all.’

‘Well, I suppose she’s a younger woman – some men go for that sort of thing, even if she’s not old money. She seems alright. Tell me, when did Cassandra start getting into drugs?’

Simon hunched his shoulders and looked away. I needed him to spill something, anything about the girl.

‘I don’t know really; I think she may’ve started last year sometime,’ he said. ‘She and Rebecca spent a lot of time together – going out together, and with Cassandra’s friends, clubbing. It’s like they were besties or something. I don’t know if she was taking anything. But she changed.’

‘Did Rebecca give her drugs? What were they, do you know?’

‘I don’t know. No idea. I was at boarding school in Geelong, but perhaps. I guess Cassandra could have got them from anybody.’

He seemed pretty sure about Rebecca, but he also could’ve been talking crap – typical teenage angst.

159

A photograph of Simon, Cassandra and Sophie was stuck on the refrigerator door. Their faces were bright, cheerful and innocent. It appeared like it’d been taken that day at the beach, just like the footage on the SIM card.

‘Sorry mate, but I need to use the latrine,’ I said.

‘Latrine?’ Simon said with a quizzical look.

‘Yeah, the dunny – the toilet!’

Simon looked away. ‘Oh, upstairs,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to turn on the lights up there I suppose.’

The music became louder as I climbed the stairs in the dark. Distant cracks of lightning flashed through the windows. Suddenly, I lost my footing. My hand gripped the railing as I struggled to regain my balance. I couldn’t see anything. Eventually my feet and legs held sway and led me up to the hallway, and then past Larry and Rebecca’s room. I recognised it from my last visit. A large framed picture of one Rebecca’s glamour shots hung above the bed. Her eyes looked through me.

I glided past Cassandra’s bedroom. The toilet door was ajar. Across the hall was Simon’s room. The door was open.

The room was dark except for a flashing light from the computer monitor. The music belted out, vibrating into the walls and my head. Then it suddenly changed – just one note being struck on a piano – a minor note that resonated through my body. It sounded like a heartbeat about to hit cardiac arrest. It scared me.

I stepped inside, mindful that he’d be waiting for me to take a piss, drink his coffee, and get the fuck out of his house. My hand switched-on the screen – the room brightened the blackness. The screen read DO YOU WISH TO SAVE?

How would I know?

Time felt like it had stopped.

I hit NO.

The screen suddenly flashed to the sky blue of Windows and an array of icons. One of them didn’t fit, Romper Room – the old kids show. What’s he got that on there for? 160

My hand moved the mouse, and then hovered the cursor over the symbol of innocence, and then clicked. Suddenly columns of small jpgs filled the screen. I opened one – a large, grainy image showed someone in the shower, steam filled the air.

I clicked on another – ten seconds of footage. It showed a person with long blonde hair sitting in the bath, foamy hot water lapping at her body. I couldn’t make out the face. Then the person got up – foam suds slid down her wet, naked body as she reached for a towel.

Her face turned.

Cassandra!

What the fuck?

I clicked again – the image disappeared. Then I clicked on another, and another. They were all Cassandra.

The room felt hot and claustrophobic as I frantically searched my pockets for a USB stick, then opened the desk drawers and poked about, found one, and stuck it in the computer. Nothing was on it. I pressed SAVE, urging it to hurry up so I could get out of there.

Eventually the USB stick light flashed green, and I was gone.

My head and body shook in equal disgust and disbelief, as I quickly walked over, flushed the toilet, and then hurried down the stairs and back to the kitchen. The kid was more messed up than I thought. Who takes videos of their own sister in the bath? Was this sleaze, sick obsession, or a power trip by someone looking for control?

Two cups of coffee sat on the bench, but Simon was nowhere to be seen. My eyes flicked about, wondering where he was. My mind raced – had I turned off the screen?

Suddenly, I heard footsteps coming from the stairs. I edged closer to the darkness.

‘Simon?’

He appeared at the other end of the kitchen. ‘Where were you?’ he asked. 161

‘Err, got lost in the dark.’

I gulped down my coffee, and wiped my sweaty brow.

‘How’s your mother, keeping well?’ I said, changing tack.

‘Oh, she’s ok I suppose. I was there before; I was going to stay but I needed to do homework–’

‘Psychology?’

‘Err, yeah. Anyway, so Dad picked me up before he went out again.’

Simon peered out the kitchen window into the shadows of the landscaped backyard, and then paced about the room, tapping things with his nail-bitten fingers, itching for me to leave. ‘Okay, is that all you wanted to ask me? So, is Sophie in trouble or something?’

‘I don’t know, is she? Does she know anything about Candy?’

He gave me the look of an innocent child.

‘Candy? Huh! That’s what Rebecca and Sophie call her. I don’t call her that. Her name is Cassandra. I call her Cassandra. Her name is Cassandra.’

Jesus! ‘That’s good. I was just curious.’ I asked Simon to give me Sophie’s number. He obliged, saying that he she hoped she was okay. My cup was empty so I put it down on the bench. ‘Just one more question.’

He looked nervous. ‘What?’

‘Do you know of any nightclubs around here called “Fetish”? Or did Cassandra talk about any places that might have that name?’

His furtive expression said he didn’t have a clue, but also that he didn’t want to share anything that he might know. Perhaps it was her that he didn’t want share. Maybe he wanted his own piece of Candy for himself.

‘Better go,’ I said, and made my way to the front door. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Simon followed me like a dog waiting for a bone. He scratched at his forehead making one of the pustules bleed.

162

‘Yeah, bye,’ he said.

I waved him off.

The walk back to the car felt like slow motion. The wind had picked up and the dark clouds were dumping rain again. I fired the engine and then rolled a smoke. Suddenly, car beams struck the rear-view mirror. A vehicle had pulled up further along the secluded road. I glanced back at Erskine’s house. Simon snuck a guilty look around at the neighbours’ houses, then closed the door.

I pulled away from the kerb, did a U-turn, and drove up the street. As I rolled past, the vehicle idled in the wet – a type of van, maybe some type of people-mover job. Three figures were in the car – two up front facing each other, and one in the back smoking, peering at the neighbours. The front two appeared to be both women, but I couldn’t tell who through the wet blur. A moment later I turned a corner, and then headed towards Lorne’s main drag.

163

CHAPTER 19

I hadn’t eaten in hours, but after seeing Simon’s sweaty mug, the idea of pizza was off the menu. A small joint on the main drag provided fish n’ chips and a can of lemon fizz. But twenty-five dollars later, and with a strange feeling in my belly, I wondered why I’d bothered.

Back in the car, I snatched the USB stick from my pocket, shoved it into the small laptop that I’d kept under the passenger seat, and then loaded the images. With a newly rolled smoke, I waded through about an hour’s worth of Cassandra – getting dressed, undressed, showering, putting on make-up. I figured the little creep had taken the footage over months and these were the highlights. Fuck knows how he did it. The girl had no idea.

The most recent image played: Cassandra was in her bedroom, stripped down to her bra and panties, in front of her mirror. The footage lasted twelve seconds. There was a mark on her, something on her shoulder. I hit play again, watched her routine, hit pause, and zoomed-in. The mark was something I didn’t expect – a tattoo of a blackbird.

The images took an eternity to save, before I shoved the computer back under the seat, and then drove towards Anne Erskine’s house. Along the way, I tried Sophie’s mobile number. I got dial tone and then a voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Sophie?’

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘Sophie, it’s Frank Carver, the PI. Sophie–’

‘How’d you get my number?’

‘Simon.’

Silence.

‘I told you before,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t get involved. Stay out of it.’ Then she hung up.

164

When I reached Anne’s house, I found that no one was around. After about an hour of eyestrain and dead ends, I drove back to my motel. But when I arrived, the idea of a lonely room didn’t appeal, so I headed back out to one of the neon-fronted bars on Mountjoy Parade.

After a slow drive, I’d found a park close enough not to get drowned. The .38, holster and USB stick was left in the glove box, before I soon found some where I could lose myself.

The Cuda Bar was an upmarket joint. It was deserted except for a guy behind the bar, and a couple of bored waitresses twirling napkins in their hands and gazing at the rain. They smiled at me as I stepped inside and headed to the bar, before they then started to gab about their weeks’ shifts, and the latest ‘bitch’ on The Bachelor. I sat and ordered a double Johnnie Walker on ice. The barman was skinny, fair, with a wide nose and chin. He placed the drink in front of me, and then started cleaning glasses and eyeing-off the waitresses dressed in black shirts, short skirts and long black stockinged legs. He had a good eye. I envied the prick’s job.

The ice slowly melted into the scotch as memories danced through my mind. About twenty minutes passed before the door swung open. A couple walked-in and sat at a table. A waitress took their order, then, about another half-a-dozen customers flooded in and grabbed tables. The barman sprang to life and gave a hoi to a guy in a back room to come and help, then started pouring beers and stirring cocktails.

The bar was long enough for a customer to be ignored, even when waving a twenty. The note fluttered in my hand as the door opened again. The chatter grew louder against the rain and black night sky. The idea of buying another drink had dissolved. Then someone approached the bar from behind me and managed to get the barman’s attention. Whoever she was, I envied her.

She’d ordered two drinks over my shoulder. I ignored her. I wiped the day’s memories from my eyes. A moment later, I discovered a drink in front of me. The barman gestured toward my right, and my eyes followed his direction.

‘You look like you could do with a drink,’ she said.

I turned toward her. ‘Perhaps I do, but what are ya doing here, Rebecca?’

165

‘I come here sometimes to, you know, to just–’

‘I’m sure. Are you following me?’ I believed in coincidence like fairies in the garden. It seemed strange that she was at this bar, but then Lorne’s a small town.

‘Why do say that, Mr Carver?’ she asked, taking a sip of her drink. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be out looking for my stepdaughter – that is what we’re paying you for, isn’t it?’

‘I was, still am. So, are you following me?’

She waved me off. ‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ she said.

She sat silent, rimming the glass with her finger.

‘Alright, perhaps you tell me why Cassandra disappeared?’ I said. ‘Larry’s not here, so you can tell me what you think really happened. Where do you think she is?’

Rebecca shrugged her shoulders then sipped her drink again. Her hair was off her shoulders, revealing a reddish patch near her left ear. She wore the same black number and matching stilettos from this morning.

I leaned in and gave her a line, trying to read her. ‘You know, a birdie told me Cassandra’d got herself knocked up by some fella who’s not quite what Annie and Lawrence would like. That’s why she took off.’

She lifted off her seat and stepped toward me, sat on the next stool to mine, then stirred her drink – something with an olive and a toothpick. ‘Nah, I reckon she’s hooked-up with her boarding buddy at Deakin – what’s her name, and was too scared to tell Mummy and Daddy that their daughter’s a lezzo – that’s probably what’s happened,’ she said.

‘How do you know about her?’

‘Cassandra and I are close. She tells me things that she probably wouldn’t tell her mother.’

‘Yeah, like what?’

Rebecca just lightly tapped her nose, ‘Shh, Mum’s the word,’ she smiled coyly.

166

I thought about what Simon had said about her earlier, but decided I’d leave it. I didn’t wanna ask her about Sophie. That could wait. I wanted to see where this conversation led me.

‘Uh-huh. Do you know if she dabbled in drugs?’

I nursed my drink.

Rebecca gazed at the shelves of liquor behind the bar. ‘I might order another, do you want another?’ she said, plunging her hand into her purse, ignoring the question.

‘Are you worried about her?’ I asked.

‘Err, yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’ Rebecca then twirled her fingers through her hair. ‘I mean, she’s quite pretty; she had so much potential.’

‘You make it sound like she’s gone, for good.’

‘What? No. I hope not. Oh my God, that would be dreadful.’ Her eyes became wet as the thought went through her head.

Her description sounded like it was of Lorne – all show and glitter, but what I’d found wasn’t pretty, just sad, empty and rotten. I wondered if Rebecca knew more than what left her lips.

She leaned back a little, dabbed her eyes and then moved in closer, just enough to brush against me. ‘So, tell me, Mr Carver…’ she said. ‘That SIM card you found... the one you told me and Larry about it this morning... I’m a bit curious... what have you done with it?’

‘Why?’

Rebecca moved in closer still, almost falling on my lap. ‘I’d like to see it,’ she said. ‘You know, just out of curiosity.’ She then caressed my leg.

‘I don’t think so. It’s not a pretty picture – it’s no clay-wheel scene from Ghost, that’s for sure.’

She kept her hand on my leg as her smiley eyes greased me over. ‘You know, Larry’s out of town on business,’ she said. ‘It’s very lonely in that big house.’

167

‘Uh-huh.’ I wanted to ease her loneliness but images of Lauren held me back.

‘You know,’ she said, as her hand slid up my inner thigh. ‘You still haven’t shown me your gun.’

A smile spread across my face as my hands played with my glass. Blood momentarily left my brain and coursed through to another organ as I felt the patrons’ eyes bury into me. Rebecca leaned back slightly as I glanced down her legs and noticed the raven tattoo above her ankle.

‘Tell me about Cassandra – what’s she like?’ I asked.

‘Cassandra is a very spoilt girl,’ she said. ‘She’s Daddy’s little princess; she gets what she wants all the time. They’re both spoilt rotten. And Simon, he’s, well, just strange. I don’t particularly like him. He’s adopted you know.’

‘Adopted? No, I didn’t know.’ I figured Rebecca was no fairy stepmother and, perhaps Cassandra wasn’t exactly a princess either. A moment passed as I nursed my drink. Rebecca peered at it and then at me. The chatter among the patrons had reached a dull crescendo as the barman started making small talk. I gave him the impression I was listening. He seemed to appreciate that.

‘So, no sign of my stepdaughter then, Mr Carver?’ Rebecca whispered when the barman’s back was turned. Her voice cracked a little. Whether it was all emotion or all show, I wasn’t sure.

‘No, I’m sorry. Look, I think it’s time I left,’ I said and slid off the stool.

‘Ok, but you may as well finish your drink first.’

I slid back on the stool and again felt the gaze of the other punters wondering if I’d stay or go. I felt sorry for her. But I didn’t wanna hang around. Maybe she was waiting to meet someone and I was a hole to fill in before the main event. I guess she’d momentarily left her empty home of broken dreams, but I wasn’t gonna ask. Either way, somewhere beyond the door were both our escapes.

‘Do you think I’m attractive, Mr Carver?’ she whispered.

I nursed my drink. ‘Uh-huh. But, I’m not the kind of fella you should ask.’

168

Rebecca flicked me a short smile and then finished her drink. She then peered up at the shelves of liquor behind the bar. ‘Hmm, that hit the spot; I might order another, no something else,’ she said, plunging her hand into her purse, and found the barman’s attention.

I envied her, again.

The drink was placed in front of her, a Hendrick’s with a slice of lime and ice. She plunged the straw in the glass and played with the ice. Mine had run dry.

‘You know, Cassandra considered acting, at one point,’ she said, between sips. ‘You know Neighbours, that sort of thing.’

‘Yeah?’ Cassandra was fair to the eye, but the idea of showbiz was something else. ‘So, what happened?’

‘She was good, but she had started uni. These things happen, and then, well I don’t need to tell you the rest, do I Mr Carver? There, I go again, talking about her as if she’s already–’

‘That’s okay. Well, I don’t know what’s happened, or what’s happened to her. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ I hoped she wasn’t gonna tear up. It wouldn’t look good in front of a crowded bar. Then her words ran dry.

I started rolling a smoke, looking for an excuse to leave.

She checked her watch. ‘Hmm, I was meant to be meeting someone,’ she mused. ‘But then apparently not. Maybe they’re lost in the rain. Perhaps I got the wrong time.’

‘These things happen.’ I don’t know how she could contemplate much of a social life with the girl missing. Maybe the other half lived a different life to the rest of us.

Suddenly, Rebecca slid off her stool. Her drink remained on the bar. ‘I’ll go now,’ she said. ‘I’m feeling tired.’

‘Are you right to get home?’ I said, gesturing past her toward the door.

‘Oh, yes,’ she smiled. Her expression softened. ‘It’s only up the hill. I’m fine. Good night, Mr Carver.’ 169

‘Yes, good night.’

What was that about?

I ordered another drink.

The cigarette twirled between my fingers as I grabbed my mobile and tried to find more on Richard Braithwaite, but Google only came up with the same stuff from yesterday. Then I flicked through to Lauren’s message. Her words began to scratch at my brain, about how she’d wanted to make up. I tried to dismiss them and think about the case. About Cassandra, and where she could be. But, like the fucking force, Lauren’s presence was strong. Her words held me between shadow and light, before the photographs of Cassandra on Simon’s computer entered my head.

I took a belt. Then strangely, the images of Cassandra and Lauren began to blur like some Dali dream. The fella behind the bar started another conversation, flushing the surreal visions away, asking me if the Cats were gonna win this week. He kept talking. I just nodded and hoped he’d get the hint. The Cats were playing away. They weren’t gonna win. Nobody wins.

I looked away towards the door. Rain pelted the deck like nails, deadening the chatter. I wondered if Rebecca had escaped the wet. I didn’t have a hope.

A moment later I left the fella still yakking at the bar, while I ran back to the car. The rain drove into me and I found myself drenched in seconds. I fired the motor, and then switched on the wiper blades and lights. The engine sounded quiet under the deluge.

Along the way, I turned up the radio to suppress the din. Cold Chisel’s Saturday Night bled through me as old memories of younger days started to flicker. ‘Saturday night's already old, walking into Sunday, and I find all desires are cold,’ Ian Moss soulfully mused. ‘I could walk forever, I don't mind. Show me a light, your company goes a little way to help me see.’ I hit the radio, turning it off. The words hurt, like a stabbing in my throat. Seconds later, I hit it again, and Jimmy Barnes’ raspy vocal soared: ‘I’ve got the keys to the city, baby,’ he cried. ‘I can feel my luck. I got two days’ money. If you light me up, this heart will shine on.’

Lauren. I hit the radio again, and then just heard the rain.

170

A few minutes later, I stepped out of the car. My body felt soft, my mind cloudy like I was a little dopey. I’d only had a couple of drinks, but I felt like there was something else working through my body.

During the short drive back to the motel, I’d noticed a car in the passenger-side window; its beams flashed high then dimmed. Who were they? I didn’t do games in the rain. What’d they want? The smell of wet eucalyptus and slick bitumen hit my senses as I arrived outside the motel room. The rain thundered on the roof, splashing onto the ground. Moths fluttered around the outside light above the door. Their feathery wings flicked the globe as I fumbled with the key. My vision had blurred. I was almost inside. But, just as the key cracked the lock and I opened the door, a shadow loomed across the floor that wasn’t mine. Suddenly, a heavy thud cracked the side of my head. Blackness...

I woke slowly. Everything hurt, like I’d been hit by a car that’d been whacked by a train. My body sluggishly stirred to resemble human movement. I felt cold. My body shivered as my eyes inched open and I realised I’d been stripped naked. I shifted slowly along the floor ’til I managed to get up and stumble into the bathroom. There, I noticed my watch was still around my wrist. It read around three in the afternoon. I turned on the shower and closed my eyes. I must have drifted into unconsciousness as when I woke, I found myself slumped on the enamel floor against the corner of the glass cube, covered in vomit with blood dripping from my nose. The water was still warm so I couldn’t have been out for too long. I let the water wash off the remaining body fluids until it went cold. I wrapped myself in a towel and sat on the bathroom floor with my back against the shower.

About half an hour later cell activity had returned to my brain. But my head felt like it was gonna bust wide open. I left the bathroom. The room looked like a hurricane had ripped the joint, with the bed and furniture turned over and my clothes strewn across the floor. Why bother breaking in and clobbering me? Unless they found what they were looking for straight away? I frantically rummaged through my jacket and patted down my trouser pockets looking for the SIM card with the images of Candy. They were empty. Amidst my panic I tried to remember where I’d left the device. I spotted my wallet and keys tossed in the middle of the bed. The wallet was turned inside out, cash gone. Thankfully my credit cards and identification were still in there.

171

At least they’d left me some way of buying myself out of this hellhole. I found some painkillers in my seemingly untouched travel bag and downed them with a traveller of Scotch from the bar fridge. The Scotch gave me a kickstart and I remembered that I’d left the SIM card with the images of Candy, back at my flat in Geelong. I wiped my brow and let out a sigh of relief.

I slowly got dressed and then checked out the car, wondering if they’d searched through that as well. It hadn’t been touched. I opened the glove box. The laptop and USB with the images of Cassandra from Simon’s computer were still there. Maybe whoever it was had been seen and quickly pissed off.

Once inside my room, I sat on the corner of the bed, ordered room service, and then gazed into nothing for a half hour or so hoping the aspirin would take effect. Suddenly, my mobile rang. It was Lauren.

‘Hey,’ I said, trying to sound alive.

Lauren sounded distant: ‘Hello, who’s this? Is that you, Frank?’ she said.

‘Yeah, it’s me. I’m–’

‘I don’t want to know–’

‘I got your message,’ I said, as my hand gripped my head trying to dull the pain. ‘I was going to call.’

Then there was a knock at the door.

‘What’s that noise?’ Lauren probed.

‘The door – room service – look, I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?’

I opened the door and moved the phone from my ear. ‘Hi, come in – yeah, that’s good, just there’s fine,’ I said to the room service attendant.

‘What’s going on, Frank, what’re you doing?’ Lauren said anxiously.

‘What?’

The line went dead.

‘Hello? Lauren?’

172

I stared down at the phone in confusion. For Christ’s sake, what was wrong with her? I felt like I was staring in a black hole that I’d never see the bottom of.

I slowly ate breakfast and pondered Lauren’s call. I felt like I needed to sort it out with her before I could continue the investigation but I wasn’t sure that was a luxury open to me now that the main players seemed to be tightening in on me with closed fists. The coffee and toast didn’t make much of an impression especially given I’d redecorated the shower with everything I’d eaten for the last 24 hours. I rolled a smoke and scanned the room for my lighter, then eventually found it under the couch. I’d gathered my keys and wallet, before I noticed a discarded matchbook near the bed. It was from the Grand Pacific Hotel. Whoever was here must’ve dropped it while looking for the SIM card. Inside, a series of letters were scrawled opposite the remaining matches. They read A-D-J. My head ached, but I guessed they meant something. The matchbook fell into my pocket before I made my way to the restaurant for something more substantial.

The gravel car park squelched under my shoes as I ventured toward the restaurant door. Last night’s rain still wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Puddles had burst their shallow banks as wet turned everything to misery. About half a dozen surfers were in the bay braving the elements. I figured they had the right idea. In the restaurant, some couples were enjoying a late lunch, while others sat on cups of coffee, waiting for the deluge to stop. The rain lashed across the window booth where I sat over coffee and thoughts of Lauren and Candy – two women I’d lost one way or another.

173

CHAPTER 20

A woman at reception smiled as I approached the counter the next morning. I told her to keep my room as I’d be back in a day or so. She was of average height, tanned, with light brown hair back pulled back tight in a ponytail. She asked me how I was enjoying Lorne – if I’d been out sightseeing. I told her that I’d seen a few sights but the ride had made my stomach churn. She gave a blank look.

Erskine’s money was plenty for accommodation and whatever else, as well as keeping Janice and the office ticking over for a while. I paid the woman an advance for when I returned, and a little extra for the condition of the room after I’d done best to clean up the joint. Her blank expression had switched to a beaming smile. The amount was enough to keep her smiling into next week.

As the woman typed something into the computer, my thoughts turned to Lauren. I didn’t want to lose her. But, did she want to lose me? There was only one way to find out.

I left the woman at reception, packed my bag, and headed back to Geelong for a change of clothes, and hopefully a new outlook on Lauren. I called Janice to get some material on Richard Braithwaite, and more stuff on Lawrence and Rebecca Erskine. I could’ve done it myself, but I needed to give her something to do. There were enough people losing their jobs in Geelong; I didn’t want Janice to lose hers. She said she’d have something for me when I arrived.

The drive back to Geelong was long and tedious with hard rain, heavy roads and a sweaty wheel. The headlights beamed into the road as it snaked away into the bitter distance. Eucalypts hung from the side of dense-scrub hills like corpses. The view along the Great Ocean Road had me hooked, but the weather had me wanting to scrape away my skin – sweaty and putrid. I wanted to be down at the beach like the surfers at Winkipop or Jan Juc, and get that rush only the sea and elements dealt out. The radio played the latest muzak before I switched stations to Radio National and listened to conversations about the latest crime novel to hit the streets.

Once in Geelong, puddles filled the potholed streets that the council hadn’t bothered to fix. The roads in Lorne were fixed by developers who never ran out of money, as if all lanes led to Lorne. The rain was constant. 174

The drive into the city was dull, and the endless line of traffic lights from McKillop to Ryrie Street didn’t help. I turned right into Ryrie, and then made a sharp left into the alleyway behind the office building. The car idled amongst the soaked rubbish skips and drowned cigarette butts. A police siren wailed in the distance, and echoed closer. Cops were a rarity in Lorne, like a cheap sandwich. It felt good to be back.

I grabbed everything from the car and headed inside. Pale light streamed through glass panels as I climbed the steps to my office. Janice was on the phone, twirling the cord around her fingers. It sounded like she was chasing down an unpaid fee. She gave me a wide smile as I walked in. She wore her usual garb: white blouse, dark grey pants, and black pumps.

She moved the receiver to the side of her face, covering it with her hand. ‘There was a call for you, about an hour ago,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, Detective Senior-Constable Roy Lane.’

‘What’d he want?’

‘Something about ‘a personal matter’; he asked if you were in.’

‘What’d you say?’

‘I said you were out, so he asked if you could call him back. That was it.’

‘Okay.’

I fell into my chair. ‘A personal matter’ – what the fuck does that mean? My chair swivelled and I peered out through the Venetian blinds to the crossroads below. The streets were choked with traffic, and pedestrians struggling to stay dry. ‘Personal matter?’ What the hell could that be about? I don’t have anything personal that he could know about – I live on my own, my flat’s set to be beautified and if I don’t pay extra rent I’m out on my arse. That’s personal. He had my mobile number. If it was personal, why not call it?

175

Bowman’s old desk lay empty as my hand started flicking the Zippo, wondering about Lauren. Jesus! The guy’s become fertiliser and he’s still making my life shit.

Janice walked in with a wad of printouts and placed them on my desk. ‘Here’s the stuff I found on Richard Braithwaite and the Erskines,’ she said. ‘So Francis, how’s the investigation going?’

‘I’ve got some good leads. I haven’t found the girl, but I feel I’m close.’

She smiled.

The fifteen pages or so on Braithwaite added nothing new to what I’d already found – politics, announcements and photographs at sausage sizzles. Damn! I had nothing on the guy and what leads I thought I had hit a brick wall. Then I remembered the photo I’d taken of the contract at Braithwaite’s place in Lorne before being interrupted by the shooter. I was sure the contract read about Braithwaite and a something Developments. I flicked through the images on my phone before I found it. I moved it around with my thumb and forefinger to see the names more clearly – one stated ‘Braithwaite and parties’, the other ‘Shawline Developments’. The real estate agent was Larry Erskine. Well, good old Larry Erskine! I bet he made a killing on the backpacker hostel. Shawline Developments didn’t mean anything to me.

Time was against me and Braithwaite wasn’t my priority; it was finding the missing girl, Candy. The forty-plus pages about the Erskines were mostly about their real estate business, and how the family had been in the area since the 1890s – apparently a distant relative of Larry’s was on the same ship as Rudyard Kipling when he docked at Melbourne, before going on to Sydney. There were a few articles about Larry and Anne’s divorce in the gossip pages of The Geelong Advertiser and The Independent. The most recent material was about Cassandra being missing. There were also some fluff pieces about Rebecca and Larry winning some real estate award. One was a feature article about Rebecca – a rags to riches yarn – how she’d come from the wrong side of the tracks in Melbourne, and found love and happiness in Lorne. It read like used toilet paper.

Janice peeled herself from my desk. ‘Coffee?’ she said.

I smiled, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ 176

She wandered off to the kitchenette. I kept flicking pages ’til I found a photo of a derelict house. Above the picture was featured an artist’s rendering of a proposed apartment complex to be built at the site. My mind scoured memories of the derelict house as my fingers tapped on the desk – where had I seen this?

Below the photo, read ‘A multi-million dollar apartment complex to capture Anglesea’s perennial views. Picture: supplied’.

Janice returned with two brim-full cups, slightly spilling one on the desk. She pulled up a seat. I grabbed my contact book from the second drawer and then dialled the number of a journo I knew at the Geelong Advertiser, and asked him about the photo – where it was taken and who supplied the artist sketch.

Janice sipped from her cup.

‘Yeah,’ I said, taking notes. ‘When was that..., and where exactly? No kidding? When? Can anyone verify that? Yeah, yeah, wait... yep, got that. Yeah... ha, bullshit. I owe you a drink, you owe me... Right... okay, well if this works, I’ll be buying you a case. Thanks mate.’

Janice placed her cup on the desk. ‘So?’ she said.

I grabbed the photo and stuck it in front of her. ‘See this,’ I said. ‘This place has apparently been snapped up by a developer for a proposed apartment complex.’

A puzzled expression spread across Janice’s face. ‘So, what’s it got to do with the case?’ she said.

‘Well according to a fella at the Addy I know, this place here,’ I said pointing to the picture of the derelict house, ‘he’s heard that this one was one of the last places the girl was seen.’

‘How does he know that?’

‘Apparently some local tradie had seen some people hanging around there a few weeks back, including some heavy-set types, with some sort of gear, lighting maybe. He reckons Cassandra was one of them; anyway, he’d told his missus, who works in accounts at the paper, and she told my mate.’

‘Your mate got a name?’

177

‘Yeah, Chris. Why?’

‘Nothing, just wondering,’ Janice smiled coyly.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘That poor girl!’

‘Well, it could be a bit of a stretch but you never know, though the last place the girl had been seen was at the beach. I knew I’d seen this photo before at Erskine’s house, in his study. Erskine was shaking hands with the developer outside the joint.’

‘Who’s that?’

His name’s Eddie Shaw. I met him in Lorne with Anne Erskine; he seemed alright.’

‘Okay?’

‘Well, I’ll check it out when I’m back in Lorne.’

‘So, who supplied the image?’ she said.

‘Shawline Developments.’

‘But that doesn’t prove this Shaw fellow has anything to do with the girl.’

‘I know, it probably doesn’t, but pays to take a look though.’

Janice sat back and peered at me before her eyes veered toward the window. I dug out the tobacco pouch from my coat pocket and rolled a smoke. Janice stood and walked toward the window. Rain fell in front of her as a sense of relief brightened her face that I had another lead. I got up and clutched her waist, before she walked out with the cup of coffee in her hand. Then I sat, switched on the computer and Googled Shawline Developments. I could’ve asked Janice to do it, but she seemed low about the girl. A couple of web links appeared on the screen about the developer – strange, I’d expected more. The firm’s website offered a menu of titles: Home, About, Developments, New Projects, and Contact, below which it displayed photographs of proposed builds. My hand glided the cursor over the developments and clicked. Photos appeared – houses in Aireys, flats, and light commercial in Lorne. Then I clicked Contact. I waited for a list of names, but all I got was a blank page saying Error 404 –

178 information unavailable. I didn’t know much about websites, but something didn’t seem to fit. Maybe it’d just shit itself – it happens. Then I thought back to where I’d seen the photo of the dive – Erskine’s house, and where I’d met Shaw – outside the cafe in Lorne talking with Anne. There was no picture of him, but I’d remembered what he’d looked like.

I went out for a smoke. When I returned, I gave Lauren a call, but she wasn’t there. I needed to see her after the last conversation we had, and straighten things out before I headed back to Lorne. Then I dialled Erskine’s number. I wanted to get his take on Shaw.

Erskine’s voice rumbled through the line. ‘Ah, Mr Carver, any word?’ he said. ‘Have you found her yet?’

His voice sounded low, but also distracted by noises in the background.

I cleared my throat, ‘I feel I’m getting damn close.’ I lied.

‘So how can I help you?’

‘I wanted to ask you about Eddie Shaw of Shawline Developments. How well do you know him?’

‘Mate, I don’t understand. What’s he got to do with Cassandra? Struth! What can I tell ya, he’s top bloke and a shrewd businessman. I did alright out of him with some local properties, that’s for sure.’ Silence. ‘Look, I dunno where you’re digging’ mate, but I reckon it’s in the bloody wrong hole. Alright – you know with that face-lift and all, I mean he’d have to be older than me, wouldn’t he? But I reckon he’s fair dinkum. He told me himself, I don’t know yonks ago, that this town had real potential. I believe him. I reckon we’re all the better for it; I know I am.’

‘Sure?’

‘Mate, before he came down here, to Lorne, my business was doing okay, but since then it’s just taken off. With the proposed apartment complex he’s behind, we’ve become the highest selling agency on the surf coast. You just can’t buy that sort of reputation – its bloody gold.’

‘So, you’ve got a lot riding on him, then?’

179

‘I dunno where you’re going with this son, and I’m not going to tell you how to do your job or anythin’, but I reckon you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. Let’s just say that without him, I’d be back to trying to rub two sticks together.’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘Well Eddie introduced me to Rebecca at some bloody real estate convention in Melbourne, a couple of years back. Anne and I were already divorced, and Rebecca... well she had me hook, line, and sinker.’ He laughed.

‘I see. So, what about his developments – anything built yet? Or are they still just proposals?’

‘He’s assured me that everything’s fine – “stuck in council red tape” he said.’

‘So, nothing’s been built yet?’

‘No, not yet – it shouldn’t too far away, this stuff happens. Look, I wouldn’t be saying so otherwise. Now, you’ll let me know if you find out anything else, won’t you, Mr Carver?’

His voice had dropped a notch and was almost back to being buried.

‘I will.’

I took him at his word, but I was still keen to look into Eddie Shaw and how he knew Rebecca.

I opened the top desk drawer. The bottle of Teachers laid still. It’s contents swilled against the glass like a small boat in the ocean. I drew the .38 from my shoulder holster and placed it next to the bottle. The suicide twins were together again. My hand closed the drawer, and then left the half-empty coffee cup on my desk.

I was a sucker like Erskine. Lauren had me and I knew it.

180

CHAPTER 21

Janice was at her desk. If she knew about me and Lauren – she wasn’t letting on.

I told her I was going home. A few minutes later I was parked outside Lauren’s apartment.

The wipers drew the wet across the windscreen as I peered up at her windows. The curtains were closed, but one of the French doors that led out onto the balcony was open. The sky was dark grey and wet. I parked around the corner, killed the engine, and then walked into her building. The blue-steel stair railings were cold, the concrete steps soulless and unrelenting, as they led me to her door. The CCTV camera perched in the corner kept its gaze on me as I knocked. Silence. I tried the handle – it clicked open.

‘Lauren?’ I said quietly.

From the small entrance hallway to the lounge room, the place was dark, except for the flickering light from the open door to the balcony. Then I found her. She was on all fours, scrounging around for something – wearing just a grey satin slip. Her cat was playing on the floor, rolling around and then pouncing into the thin air at nothing.

‘Lauren, what’re you doing?’ I said.

An empty pill vial lay on the bench, its contents strewn across the beige carpet. Her skin was pale and pimpled.

I moved a little closer to her. ‘Lauren? Are you all right?’

‘They fell on the floor,’ she said. ‘I can’t seem to find them.’

‘Let me help you.’

‘No, I’ll do it,’ she said sternly. The kitten continued playing.

I grabbed coffee from the fridge, put on a jug and waited for it to boil. Besides the coffee, the only other things the fridge offered were a half-empty bottle of vodka and a carton of milk – well past its used-by-date.

‘What’re you doing?’ she said, glancing past me.

‘Making you coffee – you need it.’ 181

I couldn’t tell if she was on uppers, downers, or fucking Tic-Tacs. She wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand, then slowly stood and placed a fistful of pills on the bench. She was wobbly on her feet before I sat her down. She gave me a sideways glance. Her eyes were caked in mascara that’d ran down her cheeks. Her pupils were glassy, but not as bad as some of the pissheads or drug-fucked zombies that roamed the dead city night.

‘Here, drink this – you’ll feel better,’ I said, shoving the cup toward her face.

She stared at it, and then tucked her chin into her throat. ‘It’s black; I don’t drink black coffee,’ she said, handing me back the cup.

‘Drink it! You don’t want the milk, unless you like cottage cheese.’

She took the cup from my hand, taking short sips, gazing at the floor.

‘What’s going on here?’ I asked softly.

Her hair was tousled – dark roots revealed themselves amongst tired peroxide blonde wisps. Her hands clasped the warm cup. Her nails had been painted black.

‘I’m leaving,’ she blurted.

Her words hit me like a truck.

‘What? What’re you talking about?’

‘That’s right,’ she said, as she took another sip. ‘I’ve quit work.’

‘What’d ya do that for?’

‘I’m leaving Frank; I can’t do this anymore. I want a fresh start; I’ve been thinking about this for some time, and I think it’s time that I move on.’ She’d picked up the cat and held it close to her chest. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor.

‘But, you can’t, not just like that. There’s questions that need to be answered; why you didn’t return my calls when–’

‘When Lyle died? You’re not still on about that? For fuck’s sake, Frank! I told you, I was in Lorne – does it really matter? That’s all in the past. I want to move on with my life.’

182

‘I know, but I hadn’t heard from you in days. Why didn’t you return my calls? I mean, what was so important about being in Lorne?’

I slowly paced around the lounge room with my hand flicking the Zippo, as we both calmed a little.

She turned away to the kitten as if my questions had disappeared into ether, ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

I paced a little more. I didn’t want to push it, but it didn’t make any sense.

The cat wriggled before Lauren let it go. The creature sprang at things that weren’t there as if it had a sixth sense, before it wandered off into the bedroom.

Lauren fiddled with the strap of her slip. ‘Well, I’m moving up to my sister’s place in Melbourne,’ she said. ‘It’s all arranged.’

She eyed me up as I stepped closer to her. ‘What about us?’ I asked gently.

‘What about us, Frank! You were obviously screwing whoever it was when I rang... and, well, you look like shit!’

‘Look, that was room service, wha–’

‘I’m not interested,’ she said coldly.

Lauren meandered over to the kitchen bench. She leaned her hand on the cold surface, while the other slipped down her thigh and drummed against her leg. The coffee must’ve kicked-in – she was drilling me hard.

I looked at her. ‘You’re right – I’m an arsehole, what can I say?’ I said, with a glint in my eyes.

Her hard expression began to wilt. Then I edged toward her, then a little more, ’til my hand lightly brushed her elbow.

‘Frank, don’t,’ she moaned. ‘Don’t think you can weasel your way back in here, into my bed – it’s not going to happen.’

Her eyes slowly began to smile.

183

My feet edged an inch closer. ‘That’d be a shame,’ I said, and inched forward, before she grabbed my collar and we kissed. For a moment, I thought I might have her back. There was no real reason for her to go up the highway.

A while later we’d decided on dinner. I called a Thai restaurant and placed an order. Twenty minutes later I came back with a heavy plastic bag and a bottle of wine. After dinner, we found our way into the bedroom and just laid on the bed, before she disappeared into the kitchen. I flicked the cat off the bed, rolled over and switched on the bedside lamp. The cat gave me a disgruntled noise and then stalked off. The floor was littered with her clothes.

I ignored the photo of her and Bowman at the beach, and then grabbed my tobacco and placed it next to them. It didn’t feel like he was around anymore.

I undressed to my boxers. She then returned, but her mood had changed – perhaps she’d taken something? Maybe the wine and whatever else she’d downed earlier had started to show its face. She sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at the window. The curtains were open. The evening darkness felt a little warmer with the dim streetlights that glowed in the distance.

‘Let me tell you about my day,’ she said.

‘Okay.’ I wondered where she was about to take me.

‘I was standing on the balcony, it’d been raining – puddles were everywhere. I looked across the street to the park. Below a tree branch was a deep puddle, and on the branch was a bird’s nest. I could hear the birds chirping for their mother to return – they were so loud I could hear them above the slush of traffic on the wet roads. I imagined their tiny mouths open, gasping for food. I desperately wanted their mother to comeback.’

Lauren then sat up, like she was about stand. ‘Then I noticed that one of the chicks was perched on the edge of the nest,’ she said. ‘Suddenly, a gust of wind hit me – I felt it rush past me, and watched my dress flow with the breeze. I looked back at the nest. The chick fell – its little wings weren’t strong enough for it to fly. It hit the puddle – muddied water splashed onto the tree and grass. Then I looked at the nest – the mother had come back. I imagined her looking for her little chick – calling for it, but nothing. I suppose she then fed the other chicks and then flew off again to search 184 for food as their little beaks gaped for more. My hands gripped the railings as I looked away up the street but I didn’t feel anything.’

I’d closed my eyes as the image of the bird stayed in my mind.

Suddenly, Lauren got up. ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ she said.

My eyes squinted open.

‘I’ll be back in a bit.’ She smiled and then slipped out the bedroom door and into the short hallway towards the bathroom.

‘Don’t let the water go cold,’ I said, and casually waved her off.

My body twitched, and my eyes opened. I’d fallen asleep. Pale daylight washed through the window. It was still raining. My watch read a little after seven, and then I found the other side of the bed empty. I wiped the sleep from my eyes. She must’ve crashed on the couch – probably had an early shift at the hospital – that’d be it. I got up and slowly shuffled down the hallway. The cat was meowing loudly from the kitchen, probably wanting something to eat, or wanting to do its business in the laundry I guess.

‘Lauren?’ I called, before making my way past the bathroom and laundry to the morning brightness of the lounge room and kitchen.

Silence, except for the fucking cat! It slid up to my leg and meowed. I ignored it.

‘Lauren?’

Nothing. She must’ve gone to work. Strangely, there was no note, as there had been in the past. Nothing. Her handbag was still on the stool, next to the bench. My mind skipped back to last night – did she mention about going to work? Suddenly my heart started pumping hard, reverberating into my head. I ran to the bathroom and flung open the door. She was in the bath, still in her grey slip.

‘FUCK! NO?’

I dragged her above the water line. ‘Lauren, Lauren – wake up. Jesus, help me! Fucking wake up, Lauren!’

185

I felt powerless as I heaved her out of the water – her flaccid body thumped on the floor with a wet smack. Light flooded into the room as cold water had pooled and gradually soaked into towels she’d left on the floor. I laid her on the towels, opened her mouth and attempted CPR – slamming her chest with my hands. My mouth was dry; my body was cold and sweaty.

‘C’mon, Lauren! C’mon! Jesus! C’MON’. My voice echoed around the room as the cat kept meowing in the background.

About a minute passed before I scrambled for a phone, dialled triple-O, and then covered her body with dry towels. A couple of minutes later, sirens wailed down Yarra Street, before there was a knock at the door. Ambulance uniforms, tubes, needles, and a resuscitation machine had become a blur. I watched on, helpless. Then I noticed something on the soul of her foot. It looked like a bruise or maybe a birthmark. My mind was running a million miles an hour yet my body felt stiff. I tried to get a close look between the ambos moving all over her. Then the police arrived. One of the ambos must’ve called them.

The two cops wandered into the bathroom as I fell into the shadows of the hallway. One seemed like she’d been in the job a while – the lines in her face were long, and her hair had prematurely greyed. The other looked like a rookie, following instructions and trying to give me reassuring smiles. Suddenly, one of the ambos turned my way. She gave me a look she’d given others before. I knew the look – I’d see it in Cassandra and Rebecca’s eyes – sad emptiness.

Lauren’s eyes were closed. The ambos had a quiet word with the cops – reckoned she’d Od’d, then drowned. I gave the cops a statement – about what’d happened and how I’d found her. The ambos went out, and then returned with a stretcher and long, red blanket. I took one last look before they lifted Lauren onto the steel trolley and covered her body. It was a tattoo – a blackbird.

I felt sick.

They wheeled her out, and then I followed them into the lounge room and watched her leave. I told the cops that she’d decided to live with her sister in Melbourne. My hands shook as they rummaged in Lauren’s handbag and fished out a

186 small address book, giving them the sister’s details. I went back into the bedroom and got dressed. One of the cops had made me a cup of tea. I drank it slow.

I didn’t know them. I didn’t want to. They said they’d call the sister back at the station. Then they left.

My mind ran faster than my body could keep up with, as I went back to the bedroom, grabbed my stuff, and collected her handbag. I peered at the cat. Its wide eyes peered back at me as it brushed against my leg with a purr. What do I want with a fucking cat? I found its food in a cupboard under the sink, stuck the cat in its carry case, and then went searching for the litter tray. I opened the laundry door and nearly collapsed from the stench. Lauren hadn’t emptied the litter. Christ! She couldn’t look after herself, let alone a fucking cat! I retched.

When I reached the front door, I then turned – and for an instant, I thought Lauren might be there – but, she wasn’t, just shadows. I edged towards the stairs, and then closed the door.

The Valiant sat wet under grey skies and rain. I dumped the cat on the back seat, and its litter in the boot. I was wet again. The door cranked open and I slid in, and then just gazed at the blur of traffic. Her image, and what she’d said, became overbearing as the gauges and knobs on the dash bled together. Wet filled my eyes and ran down my unshaven face, as I fired the motor to drive home. I felt cold, empty. Alone.

187

CHAPTER 22

Fuck this. Fuck everything.

My mind fell into an abyss – images of Lauren in the bath, Cassandra in that film – dark visions that cascaded like dominoes. Christ Lauren! What the fuck had you got yourself into?

The rear-view mirror showed rain hitting the back window – merging the Eastern Gardens, the Royal Geelong Yacht Club, and the park opposite Lauren’s apartment, into a blur. The ferris wheel at Eastern beach was no longer lit up. It stood idle, lifeless. The fairground attractions at Eastern beach were being dismantled and taken apart. The carnival had come to an end. But would things ever go back to normal? There was no point hanging around.

I drove west along Eastern Beach Road – past the designer stores and upmarket restaurants that straddled the Four Seasons opposite Steam Packet gardens, then swung into and up Moorabool Street, past the heritage-listed buildings that once housed the town’s fortunes in wool before they’d become home to financial advisors that spun ways to make the most of peoples’ superannuation. The wipers swept across the windscreen but the view didn’t change. I turned left into Ryrie Street, pulled over. The cat in the back wouldn’t shut up. I left it meowing and walked into my office building. I was in no mood for small talk.

A post-it note was stuck to the door. It read: Back in 5 minutes. I unlocked the door, walked past her desk and then entered my office. Sweat ran down my brow as I yanked open the desk drawer, grabbed the suicide twins, a handful of bullets, and stuffed them in my jacket pockets. I slid back out, and then drove home.

The drive felt slow, heavy, and wet. Puddles gaped before me as rain spattered through trees onto sodden nature strips and flooded gardens. I couldn’t bear hearing the radio chatter and switched it off. I still hadn’t seen much of my neighbours, and I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. My clothes were damp by the time I’d reached the front door. The place smelt stale – like bread had been left out and gone hard. I let out the cat from its carry-case, gave it some food and poured water into a small bowl. Cleaned out its litter, sprayed it with Glen 20 and then left it in the laundry. I shuffled down the hallway to my bedroom, dumped my bag on the bed, then wandered into the 188 lounge room and turned on the stereo. The speakers buzzed to life as music slowly coursed through the system. The cat had found me and wanted to play, purring and springing at bits of fluff on the carpet.

I collapsed onto the couch before my hands plunged into my jacket pockets, dragged out the suicide twins. I opened the bottle and took a long swig. Then I shoved six cartridges into the .38’s empty chambers. Another swig was followed by another. My face ran pale with sweat. Then my hands started to shake as my mind flittered amongst shadows. Subtle piano keys – minor chords resonated from the speakers, before Betty Carter’s cry echoed around the room, singing Lonely House. Her voice penetrated my head as my face contorted in pain; I wanted everything to end.

From within the shadows, I wondered which of the twins would do it – which one would blow my mind before the other. My body hunched over and leaned towards the floor.

‘...There must be something I don’t comprehend...’ she sang.

I opened my eyes and stared at my hands that gripped the bottle and the gun. Tears welled in my eyes – loss surrounded me. My decisions had led to the deaths of two people.

I emptied the scotch over the next few hours, and then wiped my mouth with my coat sleeve.

‘...I’m lonely, in this lonely house... in this lonely town...’ Ms Carter’s words rang in my ears. Time had stretched before me – the day had slipped into night. I slowly lifted my head and gazed at the faint glow of the streetlight through the venetian blind that hung low in the window. The light held a warm yellow glow against the cold, blackness of the street. The cat was meowing, probably hungry. Fucking creature. The bottle hit the floor, rolled a little, then stopped against the jaded coffee table. I cradled the gun and closed my eyes.

My mind left the comfort of the street light and re-entered the shadows. Thoughts of Lauren electrocuted brain cells, before Cassandra appeared – the bright smiling face on the photograph, and then the sad, drugged-fucked girl on the film. Images flittered like speeding vehicles crossing traffic lanes in the night. Suddenly, they then took me to somewhere unexpected – back to the backpacker hostel in 189

Lorne... bare feet on wooden stairs led me to the first floor and dimly-lit corridor, stepping past a bathroom – bra and pantyhose hung on a rail above the bath, then past closed doors before I reach another, and opened it. Hell.

Blood spattered walls and floor covering strands of blonde hair. Fresh, white sheets lay under folded towels on the bed. I lift a thin blind drawn over a sash window – Cassandra’s face! Then look away – her face is gone, but her body floats in a pool of water. She’s serene. Cars, drone-like insects on a summer night, infect my ears. I walk back ’til my hand grips the door, and closes it...

I woke sometime around nine the next morning. Dull light filled the room. My finger was still locked on the trigger and my head felt like it’d been hit by a bus. The cat was meowing. It sounded like a police siren. My face grimaced at the thought of its litter. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know about anything.

My phone buzzed. I let it ring a while.

‘Yeah?’

‘Frank, it’s Janice,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were coming in or not.’

Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door.

‘Hold on, somebody’s at the door. Look, I’ll call you back.’

She said my name a couple of times before I hung up.

I wedged the gun behind a couch cushion, and then shuffled to the front door, trying to put together the remnants of my mind. They’d knocked again. I quickly fed the cat to shut it up and then left it in the laundry.

‘Yeah, coming... Jesus! Who is it?’

‘It’s me Frank, Roy, Roy Lane,’ he called from behind door.

‘What d’ya want?

Then it hit me like hammer – Janice’d told me yesterday he’d rang, before I’d discovered Lauren scrounging for pills on the floor. That was probably her about to say that Lane was on his way, before I hung up. I was in no mood to talk to anyone, let alone bloody cops, but opened the door anyway.

190

Lane stood there, arms at his side. A younger bloke was with him; he had his hands in his pockets and was eyeing the neighbours’ gardens. The pair stood out like a dog’s balls – bad cologne, dark-grey suits, white shirts and bad ties. Lane’s black shoes held a shine, while his mate’s dark brown steel-caps were scuffed. Lane was tall, slim, with grey-blue eyes and brown-greying hair. The other fella was doughy, blonde, with a smug look on his face.

‘And to what do we owe the pleasure,’ I said dryly, trying to raise a smile on one side of my unshaven face.

Lane extended his hand, I shook it. ‘Frank, good to see you,’ he said. ‘Been on a bender, mate?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I called your office, but Janice said you weren’t in, so I thought I’d pay you a visit.’

‘That’s nice. So what d’ya want? What’s this about?’

‘Ah, perhaps you should invite us in and I’ll tell you – you know what neighbours can be like, Frank.’

‘Don’t know, never see ’em. Who’s he?’

‘This is Detective Constable Chase; he’s new to Geelong CIU. I’m showing him around – meeting some characters in the field, that sort of thing.’

Chase stood there, and curled his top lip.

‘Does he talk or just do bad Elvis impressions?’

Chase stepped forward. ‘I heard about you – a smartarse,’ he said.

‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘Well I suppose, Roy, I should let you in. Is your friend staying outside? If he is, I’ll give him a bowl of water.’

Lane smirked, ‘C’mon Frank, play nice.’

Chase growled.

They followed me along the hallway and into the lounge room. Chase leaned against the tan-tinted sliding doors, pushing them to the wall, as he surveyed the room. 191

Lane had his hands in his pockets and tried to give me a reassuring grin. I ignored them both.

Lane noticed the empty bottle on the floor. ‘Mate, what happened here – have a party or something?’

‘No, a wake,’ I said.

‘Anyone we know, Frank?’ said Lane.

I turned away and gazed out the window hoping they’d piss off. They didn’t.

‘Well, yeah... Bowman’s wife, Lauren,’ I said, catching my reflection in the window. ‘She died yesterday.’

‘We heard about that,’ Chase said, stepping forward and picked up the bottle. ‘Know her well, did ya?’

‘A bit, perhaps not well enough,’ I said.

Chase held the neck of the bottle in his hand. ‘Screwing her, were you?’ he said.

‘Fuck off. What’s it to you, dough-boy?’

Chase lurched forward. ‘You need to be careful what you say, understand?’

I turned to Lane. ‘You better muzzle your dog, or else.’

‘Or else, what Carver?’ smirked Chase, snatching a newspaper from the couch.

Lane stepped between us and turned to his offsider, ‘Button it!’ he said. ‘Now Frank, I don’t want to be the bearer of any more bad news for you, but it's come to our attention that Lyle Bowman’s wife, Lauren, was under investigation for the theft of pharmaceuticals from the hospital at which she was an employee. Did you know anything about that?’

‘Wha?’

The thought of her stealing drugs was crazy. But after seeing that fucking tattoo on the sole of her foot, I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t sure about anything.

192

‘No, I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t know what’s been going on with her.’

Lorne. What the fuck was she doing in Lorne?

‘She hasn’t been well,’ I said, gesturing toward my head.

Chase’s fat mouth opened again, ‘You like chicks with a screw loose, do ya?’

My body lurched toward him and punched his mouth.

Lane broke us up.

‘He told you to button it,’ I said.

Chase wiped blood from his top lip.

Lane glared at Chase, before the fat prick went outside. ‘You shouldn’t have done that Frank,’ said Lane. ‘He could have you charged – you could face some serious gaol time. Is that what you want, Frank?’

My body recoiled as I sat on the couch. I couldn’t remember if the .38, wedged behind the couch cushion, was still cocked – one false move and it’d make a great fucking dent in the furniture.

‘So, anything else you were gonna tell me?’ I said.

Lane stood over me. ‘No, I came to tell you that the detectives investigating found no evidence that she was involved. It was somebody else who fitted a similar description, who has since been charged. I had hoped you were going to tell her.’

I sat forward. ‘When did you know about this?’ I said.

‘A couple of days ago,’ he said.

‘A couple of days ago, and now you tell me? SHE’S FUCKING DEAD!’

Lane stepped back and started pacing. Chase heard the commotion and stuck his fat head in the room. He didn’t say anything, then Lane waved him off, and he went back outside. The cat started meowing from the laundry.

‘For fuck’s sake, she could still be alive if I’d known sooner,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Or her?’

193

‘What’s that noise?’ Lane asked, peering towards the hallway. ‘You got a cat, Frank?’

‘You could say so,’ I sighed.

‘Well about Lauren, mate we were waiting for clearance – it took time. I called your office the day before yesterday. Didn’t you get the message? I’m really sorry about what’d happened.’

Silence fell like a hammer. I could’ve saved her if I’d taken his call. I could’ve done something.

Lane started pacing again. ‘How’s your investigation in Lorne, going?’ he said, glancing out the window.

‘That’s one way to change the subject,’ I said, and rolled a cigarette. ‘I think I’m making progress, but I don’t like where it’s taking me.’

My mouth ran on autopilot telling him enough, while my mind stayed stuck on Lauren.

‘What’s the go?’ he said, interested.

‘It’s making me sick – that’s the go. The fucking town’s not right, just window dressing and neon, with shadows behind the veil.’

Lane stepped toward me as I lit my cigarette, blowing smoke between my dry lips. ‘Gotta be careful playing in the shadows, Frank,’ he said. ‘You never know what’s there.’

‘Well one girl’s dead, one’s missing. Some dive’s gonna make way for a proposed apartment complex – I reckon the missing girl was filmed there. Her old man sold the place to a developer who’s got his hands all over town–’

‘Whoa, a dead girl?’ he said, surprised. ‘And you reckon the missing girl was filmed – what the hell are you talking about?’

My legs propped me off the couch and out of the lounge room and through to the kitchen. My head still pounded. I made coffee hoping it’d help. Lane followed. The cat kept meowing from the laundry.

194

‘You had better tell me what’s going on, Frank,’ he said.

I told him about the SIM card I’d found and the footage it contained.

Lane stroked his chin. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘It might be some kind of porn ring – the girl gets roped in with inducements – money probably, and then hooked on drugs.’

Lane raised an eyebrow. ‘And you reckon that this is going on in Lorne?’ he said.

‘I’ll know more in a few days.’

‘All right, now the dead girl – what’s her story?’

‘Well, I’d noticed a couple of your blokes outside the backpacker hostel–’

‘Plain clothes or uniform?’

‘Uniform – they were locals; they didn’t want anyone sticking their beaks in.’

‘Well, a girl was found dead!’

‘Well I heard that a girl had overdosed, but it sounded like bullshit, so I had a look for myself.’

Lane shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know how you got in, but go on...’

‘Well there was blood spatter on one of the walls, blood and hair fibres in the carpet. It wasn’t pretty.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No. But I reckon the girls are connected.’

‘I dunno Frank, if a uniform said she’d Od’d then she probably did–’

‘What? She’d beaten herself to a pulp? I don’t think so. Look, something’s going on there... or what, it takes three dead girls to prove a point these days, does it?’

‘All right, enough hysterics. Okay, maybe you’re onto something – it could be some sort of porn ring – people pay big for kids or people being abused – snuff videos and the like. But there’s plenty of porn on the web. Then again, it may not be, Frank; it

195 might be that the dead girl just wanted a ticket out. Maybe she had a fight with her boyfriend or something, who knows. And the missing Erskine girl – well, she’s probably hooked-up with the boyfriend of the girl who’s now knocking on the pearly gates. I’m sure she’ll come back to Daddy when the money dries up.’

I took a long drag and breathed out words, ‘Who knows – that’s code for who cares, right? What I understand is that one girl tried to get out, and the other’s stuck in it. But the one that got out – was put out, permanently.’

He waved his hand at me as a frown creased his face. ‘No need for dramatics, Frank,’ he said. ‘Are the girls underage?’

‘One is. The dead girl was about twenty-three – she was a tourist who swung with the wrong crowd. The missing girl is seventeen.’

He wiped his mouth in disgust. ‘Okay,’ he said.

‘As I said, I’ll know more in a few days.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’m going to a party.’

‘What sort of party?’

‘Ah, how should I put it... fancy dress.’

‘Fancy dress – whose party is it?’

‘Don’t know. I’ll find out when I’m there.’

I grabbed two cups from a shelf and gestured toward him, and placed them on the bench.

He shook his head and smiled. ‘I’m trying to stay off it,’ he said. ‘The wife reckons it’s no good for me; I don’t argue with her. You could do with a few cups, though.’

‘Yeah.’

‘All right, so this SIM card. Do you have it?’

I gave him no reply.

196

‘Christ Frank, do you have it or don’t you?’ he barked.

‘It’s safe.’

‘Well, where is it? This is vital evidence we’re talking about.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s safe.’ The SIM card was still stashed in the sugar bowl behind him, but I didn’t want him to have ’til I was sure what was going on.

‘Well I hope for you and the missing girl’s sake, that it is safe,’ he said.

‘Tell you what, when I find out who’s behind this, you’ll be the first to know. Then you can have it.’

Lane’s thin mouth cracked a smile as he walked out. ‘I’ll be waiting for your call, Carver,’ he said.

‘You’ll get it. Now, leave me alone.’

Lane and his podgy colleague left, before I let the cat out from the laundry, and then sunk another cup of coffee. Then I called Janice. I told her I wouldn’t be in for the rest of the day. She became upset – said she’d heard about Lauren’s death, before she composed herself and asked if there was anything wrong.

Wrong? The whole fucking world was wrong.

I told her I had a case of ‘man-flu’ and wouldn’t be in for a few days. I didn’t want her to think that Lauren and I were something. I could hear the smile in her voice; I needed that, but I wasn’t sure if it’d be enough.

197

CHAPTER 23

Two days passed before I noticed Lauren’s obituary and funeral notice in the paper. The obit was by her sister. Janice went to the service. I didn’t go, didn’t want to. I couldn’t bear the tears and everything that went along with it. There was enough sadness in the case, and everyone in it.

After gaining some sense of normality, I ventured out down the stairs, past the neighbour’s prying eyes, and outside to the letterbox. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were set to dump wet. The post revealed nothing much – a few bills, junk mail. My eyes hadn’t seen the sun in as many days as my face hadn’t fronted a mirror. Back inside, I wandered into my bathroom. The grey-tiled floor felt cool under my feet as I splashed my face, then shaved – the reflection was bad – greying stubble, greasy complexion, and too many lines around dark, grog-soaked eyes. The room filled with steam as the hot shower bored into my skin. My head was jammed with the lies and promises I’d made, but never kept. The water bled away the hurt – the alcohol-induced stench for Lauren’s death that’d strangled me like a vine, twisting my mind in knots. When I’d finished, I wiped the mirror – the reflection had improved, but the lines around my eyes remained – stress lines from killing myself as a human being and screwing my dead partner’s wife – now deceased. The reflection wasn’t nice, but it was all I had.

The drive to Lorne lay ahead – I didn’t want to be there, let alone drive there – that damned tourist route with the cheesy happy snappers seeking their next thrill. At least here, I knew where I was with the city’s grit in my skin. But in Lorne, I felt sick – the fake smiles and false dreams. It’d been a small inlet town I loved as a kid, but now it’d become a cove of nightmares – overdeveloped and dripping ugly.

Lauren’s voice echoed in my head. I wanted to drown her out. Her death had me walking a tightrope, and if I fell off, I didn’t know if I could recover. The way I felt was no good for driving winding roads – the Great Ocean Road was like an uncoiled snake – gripping the rocky escarpments, slithering in and out of bush, before squirming its way along the coast. The back way – west along the Princes Highway to Winchelsea, and then cut south through Bambra and Deans Marsh – was the only alternative.

198

I called the motel in Lorne where I’d been staying while on the case and told them I’d be back this afternoon. The receptionist sounded pleased that I’d decided to come back. She should, I’d already paid for it.

Breakfast was light. My stomach was ready to re-engage with food again. I ate in the lounge room, before locating the matchbook that’d been left in my motel room by whoever’d trashed it, in my jacket pocket. I used the same technique to decipher the numbers as I had for the classifieds and hoped it worked. The letters A-D-D corresponded with the phone keypad numbers 2, 3, 3. I figured that was the twenty- third of March.

That was tomorrow.

Soft light filtered through the curtains onto the camel-coloured carpet and old leather couch, as a brief shower pattered the window and the leafy trees outside. The cat hovered around like a lost dog, pawing at me and eyeing me with wide, soft eyes. I gave it something to eat and drink, and cleaned its tray. I packed a small bag, filled a thermos with coffee and an empty hip flask with scotch. The .38 was wedged behind the couch cushion, and still cocked. I released the hammer and nestled it into the shoulder holster. Then I called Janice. I told her where I was going, and that I felt better, but was not sure when I’d be back. Oddly, her voice made me think she wasn’t too sure. I then asked if she could do me a favour. It wasn’t often I asked her to do me favours, but in this instance, I needed one. I knew she liked cats and asked if she could look in on this cat while I was away. I told her that I’d leave a spare key in the usual place where she could find it. She said she didn’t know I liked cats. I said I didn’t. I was just looking after it, for a friend. Janice didn’t ask any more questions. I wondered why, before she said she’d do it. The front door locked behind me as I left.

The car felt like an old friend as it roared to life, and then took me out of Fitzroy Street, right into Ryrie, and through town. Traffic was slow in the wet. I crossed Latrobe Terrace, then along Aberdeen Street and its mix of timber and brick Federation, Edwardian, Deco and post-war houses, then through the leafy suburbs of Newton and Manifold Heights. The road then led me winding down Deviation Road and its weed-encrusted cliffs to the pit of Fyansford, and then onto the Geelong Bypass – the route Melbournians take to get to the coast – before taking the Princes Highway out to Winchelsea. I hadn’t been there in a while, a town most pass through rather than 199 stop. The region was part of the Western District that spread across most of the west of the state. It was grain and sheep grazing country – undulating, windswept fields of yellow-tinged grass and canola, and wool that’d once made Geelong the richest port in the country.

Once I reached Winchelsea, I pulled up outside a shop that promoted itself as offering a lawyer, a real estate agency and an accountant. I got out and looked for a decent cup of coffee. Maybe the three wise monkeys were running a cafe out the back. I’d already drunk about half the contents of the thermos, but there’s only so much instant coffee a human being can drink without resorting to booze to get rid of the flavour. Across the road was the local pub, which was also the only cafe. I bought a takeaway, and then sat in the car rolling a cigarette. The coffee resembled drain water, as I blew smoke rings into the car’s ceiling.

My thoughts turned to Lauren and Cassandra. Each had had their way with me in one way or another – each one had me feeling empty. Then I grabbed the hip flask from the glove box, took a belt. I didn’t feel better, but the taste had gone.

Once out of town, I drove down the Winchelsea-Deans Marsh Road to Lorne. The road took me past lush farmland, then into Deans Marsh, a village twenty-two clicks from the coast. Motorists passed me, some stopped on the side of the road – they looked like tourists who’d got lost between somewhere and nowhere. The road then started to climb into higher ground. The scenery changed from grassy paddocks to rising hills, then forest. Lonely dirt roads led to places I’ve never been, and wouldn’t want to see. I’d heard stories about people – tourists, backpackers, families – heading down such roads – roads in other places, never to be seen again. Then, signs warning motorists to look out for kangaroos at the side of the road, and small crosses, decorated with flowers, stood on the gravel shoulder – monuments to departed souls.

Tall eucalypts leaned across both sides of the road, branching into each other before the view opened to farms and roadside stalls selling flowers, vegetables, fresh eggs. Fifteen minutes later, the scrub changed from sparse to thick as the forest enveloped the land – the Otway ranges. The tree canopy had darkened the view. I flicked the lights, grabbed a tape from the glove box and wedged it into the stereo. The first song, an instrumental, made my thumbs tap by impulse, turning corners and descending slopes, ever closer to Lorne. 200

A moment later, the land receded and the vastness of the blue ocean appeared. Suddenly, the song changed – notes picked on a guitar, then a voice – the pain-soaked tone of B.B. King. The tempo was slow, the rhythm section brushed behind him – then he sang... ‘Thrill is gone, The thrill is gone away from me, Thrill is gone, the thrill is gone away from me, Oh, I still live on baby, But so lonely I’ll be...’ I was gonna let the hurt ride me out, but failed. I reached for the hip flask and took a belt, then left it on the passenger seat, not knowing when I’d need it again. Suddenly, a sign appeared on the left side of the road, it read: Welcome to Lorne.

I didn’t believe it.

The car rolled into the motel’s parking lot, splashing gravy-coloured puddles, before I checked in at reception and was given the key. The woman at the front desk asked how long I needed the room, saying she’d been taking inquiries from some guy at a tourist information booth who’d been hit by a wave of tourists looking for places to stay. I prised a wad of fifties from my wallet – she welcomed me back with a smile. I grabbed my stuff from the car and then opened the door to my room. It was clean, bright with a hint of cheap air freshener, just like it always was. The investigation started to swirl in my head – I wanted to get back on the case, but the room felt haunted – images and aromas of naked female flesh – Lauren – the ghost of lust past.

About half an hour later, I’d showered and went out. I was hungry. Rain blanketed the town as I drove into Mountjoy Parade and watched the tourists scamper out of the wet, while the locals took it in their stride. Then I scanned the streets for her, chasing her. The lack of food, and intoxication had affected my brain. For a second, I didn’t know where I was – smeared faces through windscreen, blurring daydreams and nightmares. Suddenly, I stopped.

It was her!

A line of cars behind jammed their horns, before I pulled over. Passers-by eyeballed me, but my eyes were on her – tracking her every move. I got out, ran across the street, dodging moving steel. She was almost within reach, as I zigzagged through pedestrians towards her. It was her, but it couldn’t be; it had to be her – shock of blonde hair, right build, but who? Cassandra or Lauren?

201

My heart raced ahead of me. Could it be? But here, I couldn’t tell. My legs clambered, as my hand reached, clutching her shoulder.

‘CASSANDRA’

My head and stomach ached. I stood breathless.

She turned. ‘What? No, sorry, I’m not Cassandra,’ the woman said. ‘You’ve got the wrong girl.’ She then walked away.

Passers-by stared at me as if I’d just arrived from fucking Mars. Suddenly, I felt my grip on the case had loosened. My focus blurred in the rain as shadows surrounded me in brightening daylight. I sat on the kerb and faced the gutter. Then I heard someone call my name.

My clothes were damp. My face was wet and oily with sweat, like a fucking drunk on the street searching for his soul amidst the human waste. The voice arrived, like a diesel locomotive rolling on old tracks – low, round, heavy, with a warmness I’d missed. It was Larry Erskine.

‘Carver!’ he said, crouching next to me.

My head slowly turned to see his black leather boots, dark-grey trousers, and white shirt buttoned two below the collar. A thin, gold chain hung from his neck.

‘Mate, what’re ya doing here?’ he said. ‘You all right, what happened?’

He helped me up and asked if I’d eaten. I shook my head. Then he led me to a nearby cafe where we sat inside. He ordered food, coffee and juice. I told him what’d happened over the last few days with Lauren’s death. Wet filled my eyes.

‘Son, I’m really sorry to hear about your girl, I see it’s killing you,’ he said, as I alternated black coffee and orange juice. ‘But there are people who need you now, who need you back. Son, I need you to find my daughter. You said you were close. Do you think you can do it?’

Erskine’s voice was calm and gentle as I slowly felt the weight of death lift from my body.

202

The food arrived and Erskine rose from his chair. ‘You eat up, all right; get some tucker into you,’ he said, and slid a fifty from his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘I hope you can continue to find my little girl – let me know either way.’

Then he left.

I finished the meal and nursed black coffee for a while, thinking about the case and everyone involved. Sobriety had entered my brain. It dawned on me that tomorrow was dress-ups at the Grand Pacific Hotel, but before that I needed to go to Anglesea – the dive to be bulldozed for Shaw’s proposed apartment complex. It had to be where Cassandra was filmed.

If Cassandra was still alive, I was running out of time.

203

CHAPTER 24

Erskine’s fifty remained on the table when I left with sunshine drying me out, as I walked back to my car. I still felt low, but the old man was giving me a second chance. I drove back to the motel and collapsed on the bed. About an hour later, I woke, grabbed the hip flask from the floor, stepped into the bathroom and watched the amber-coloured liquid slosh down the plughole, before tossing it in the bin. My eyes drew into the mirror – I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. A sense of peace was reflected. I splashed my face, walked back into the lounge room, picked up the phone and dialled Erskine’s number. He sounded low, but relieved that I was sober and on the case. But where I was headed, I feared for what I’d find, and how he’d react.

The drive to Anglesea took half an hour or so. The sky had cleared and the temperature had climbed with my shirt sticking to me like a clam. The ocean sparkled like a depthless jewel from the road, as I drove along the winding and undulating stretch of sky-high-priced real estate. My hands turned the wheel, taking me into Anglesea, through to Saltwater Place, where the derelict house stood. It looked as it did in the newspaper advertisement – ready to be bulldozed for Shawline Developments’ proposed apartment complex. I sat the car a few houses back from the dive, surrounded by a handful of new builds waiting to be filled by families escaping the city sludge. A cyclone fence stood in front of the house, behind which was a billboard of the proposed development. A grey-coloured Ford Transit was parked in front. I rolled and lit a smoke, wound down the window, and waited for someone to make an exit. About twenty minutes later, two guys – thick-set – appeared carrying lamps affixed to tripods, placed them in the van and then took off. I’d seen them before – they’d been parked outside my motel room the week before. Maybe they were same guys, possibly along with Cassandra, that the tradie had seen a few weeks ago.

I got out and made my way to the house. I wasn’t surprised if bikies were involved. They were known suppliers of speed, ice, heroin and anything else for a price. If a scene seemed seedy, they were usually hanging around.

The house was a double-fronted weatherboard. Heavy, faded drapes hung in the windows like corpses from a tree. The temperature must’ve already hit 35 degrees as builders from the nearby sites had left for the beach. The fence had been left open.

204

Maybe Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee were coming back. I climbed through and was greeted with the crunch of broken beer bottles amongst weeds under my feet. The front door was bolt-locked. A walk around the back revealed two windows on the side, and then the back door. It was locked. My hand slid into my pocket and slipped out the lock-pick set. A few seconds later, the lock cracked and I entered. The laundry was empty, except for a dirty sink, white walls, faded yellow linoleum and the reek of turps and mothballs. I stepped from there and into a white-walled kitchen. Empty cigarette packs and booze bottles were scattered across a steel-framed table. Two matching chairs sat next to the table. A set of cupboards and drawers revealed nothing but a couple of mousetraps and a half-empty bottle of White King. Then I made my way along a dark corridor towards the front door.

Three doors – two on my right, one on my left appeared as the boards creaked under my feet toward them. The first door opened to a white bathroom. The smell of bleach tore into my nostrils and eyes. Dust had settled in the sink, and bath, over which a shower hung with a slow drip. Above the sink, a mirrored medicine cabinet proved empty, before I dragged the mouldy plastic shower curtain to the wall, revealing a couple of syringes. My pulse quickened. This had to be the right place, but I still hadn’t seen the other rooms.

Shadows stalked my every move along the hallway before I eased open the next door – a bedroom. In the window hung the faded curtains I’d seen from the street. The room reeked of piss. One of the walls was scrawled with graffiti I didn’t recognise. The carpet was sticky, torn, and pulled at the edges. Empty liquor bottles were strewn across the floor next to a stained single-bed mattress. I left the stench and crossed the corridor to the last room.

The door had been left ajar. My face ran pale as I shoved it open. Dull light filtered through dirty drapes that’d drooped in the window and shone onto dried blood stains on the stinking caramel-coloured carpet. Wallpaper peeled from one wall, the others had been painted off-white. Despite the heat, the room felt cold, morbid.

I tried to remember what would put Cassandra in the room. Something... I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to think back to those images from the SIM card. What was it? I slowly opened my eyes. Then, I turned and looked back towards the door. And, there it was – the crucifix. 205

Fucking bingo!

I took photos of the scene as well as the other rooms for rooms for evidence, then left.

My mouth ran dry and my head ached from the heat and stench, as I sat in the car and stared at the shit hole, trying not to think about what’d happened to Cassandra, let alone anybody else. There was nothing to show that she’d been killed, but the blood didn’t give me much hope. I felt sick. Time went by waiting for the two heavies to reappear. They didn’t, so I took off.

About half way back to Lorne, the clouds returned and dumped rain, raising the humidity. Suddenly, the Ford Transit I’d seen outside the dive appeared. The vehicle was three ahead of me in a line of cars that were headed for Lorne. The weather had gone from bad to shit in two blinks. I switched on the headlights, but they made little difference. Suddenly, the wheel jolted in my hands and I felt the car swerve. I pulled over and discovered a flat.

About forty minutes later, I was ready to go, but my mind had revisited the house – images of what must’ve happened; its putrid filth filled my nostrils and my mouth as I stood in the rain and puked. I opened my eyes and noticed vomit had splattered my shoes.

I needed Lauren.

The ocean appeared dark and cold as I slid into the car seat and slowly drove away. By the time I’d hit Lorne, the weather had lightened but the rain still fell. Once in town, I rolled into a tyre service centre, had a new tyre jacked on and the spare put back in the boot, before I motored along Mountjoy Parade toward the backpacker hostel, and then parked across the street. Business looked slow as I ordered water, coffee and a sandwich from a table near the hostel’s bar. A moment later, the meal appeared delivered by a familiar face – the tall, long-haired fella I’d met before. He recognised me from the last time I was there asking about Cassandra, also known as Candy.

‘Hey man, you’re back,’ he said, placing my order on the table.

‘I’m still around,’ I said. ‘You haven’t seen the girl I’m looking for, have you?’

206

‘Nah, sorry dude, but I’ve seen that guy who she was with–’

‘Shit! Where?’

He lifted his chin, motioning me outside. ‘He walked past not that long ago, headed in that direction.’ He flicked his left wrist, pointing his hand in the same direction.

I turned toward outside and hoped the fella was still on foot.

‘You fucking sure it was him?’

‘Yep, that was him. Don’t know his name, though.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘Not sure, there were a few people about, you know, but I think he had a yellow t-shirt. I couldn’t really–’

‘Right,’ I said, and left a twenty on the table.

Outside, vehicles clogged the road, as locals and tourists sought for somewhere to escape the rain. I pursued the kid on foot, hoping he hadn’t taken off in a car. A moment later, a side street led me to a back alley where shop owners had parked their cars. I stopped to catch my breath, before spotting the kid next to a car. After zigzagging between lines of cars, I grabbed him.

‘Hey! What the fuck’s going on?’ he said, twisting around, eyeballing me.

He was young, about 19, dishevelled in a stained yellow t-shirt, faded jeans and new sneakers without socks. His face was pale, eyes dull.

I slid Cassandra’s photograph from my jacket pocket. ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you,’ I said, shoving the picture in his face. ‘Have you seen this girl?’

He glanced past the image, and took off. I hoped the little prick couldn’t run fast. A moment later, I grabbed his arm and shoved him against a wall. A passer-by looked on.

‘Where’s the fucking girl?’ I said, catching my breath, my fist clenched.

‘Dunno what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,’ he said, struggling with my grip.

207

‘Yeah you do. I’ve seen the two of you going into a shithole in Anglesea. I know what’s going on. Just tell me where she is!’

I flipped out my wallet and showed him my ID. ‘Her family hired me to find her – her name’s Cassandra. WHERE IS SHE?’

‘I dunno, okay. Maybe they’ve taken Candy somewhere, maybe she got out... I dunno. I heard them talk about Anglesea–’

‘Been there. Who’s they?’

He looked away. I smacked his clammy face. ‘Let’s try again,’ I said. ‘Who’s they?’

‘I dunno, there were no names–’

‘What’d they look like?’

‘I dunno. There were some big guys... bikies maybe, and a girl.’

‘Anybody else?’

‘Look I dunno, fuck man!’

‘Tell me about this girl.’

‘She was young, seventeen maybe,’ he said, scratching his arm. ‘I’d seen her sometimes. She just hung around, watched sometimes. I didn’t see anybody else, just voices.’

‘Voices?’

‘We were taken to different places. Our faces were covered. Then we were told what to do... I...’

Then the kid’s face suddenly lurched to one side as if something or someone had caught his eye.

‘What did the girl look like?’ I said.

He shook his head.

I grabbed his arm. ‘Damn it, what’d she look like?’

208

He’d been spooked good. His eyes were fixed behind me. I turned.

A car had rolled up. It was the same Commodore I’d seen before. The boot lid popped open. Then three heavies exited the car, two of them I’d seen at the Anglesea shit hole, the other I hadn’t seen before – all wearing dark hooded tops, dark jeans and heavy boots. The kid was shaking, like he was about to start frothing at the mouth.

‘She, she had a reddish look about her,’ he said. ‘Please let me go.’

I let go of his arm, before one of the heavies grabbed him and belted his jaw. It was busted. The kid was then bundled into the boot. Then the other two moved in front of me, while the other shifted behind.

‘You’re in the wrong town, cunt,’ one said, as the kid murmured something from inside the boot. His cries were dampened by the steel coffin in which he’d been dumped.

‘I don’t think so. I like it here. I’m thinking about making it permanent.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘Coz the only thing permanent is your–’

My fist smashed his face before he could finish his sentence. Blood and saliva spilled from his mouth. Suddenly, the guy behind grabbed my arms. He head-butted the back of my head like a hammer, and rattled my brain. The fella in front wiped his mouth and smiled, then slammed his fists into my body. A blow hit my solar plexus – pushing air out of my lungs, causing me to collapse like dead weight. As I hit the ground, the pair then took turns kicking my body like a ball, before they scrambled into the car and sped away.

It was still raining when I managed to get up. The parked cars hadn’t budged. No one had noticed the belting I’d copped. Pain coursed through my limbs and hit my brain as a shallow pool of blood had formed in my mouth. I spat it out and wandered back to the car.

I pulled out my phone, switched it to no I.D, and reported the kidnapped kid to the cops.

It’d been a couple of days since I saw Anne Erskine. I had no good news for her, just painful images. I didn’t want to tell her what I’d seen, but she needed to

209 know. I sat in the car, got a smoke going, fired the engine, and then veered up a steep road to the town’s straddling neighbourhoods. Eventually, the car stopped outside Anne’s address and killed the engine. The air was light with the slight aroma of wattle and gardenias as I wound down my window and breathed in. I thought of telling her everything – what I’d seen: the house at Anglesea, the kid down the street, the footage of her daughter. Then I backed away. I’d thought Cassandra was alive, but now I wasn’t so sure. Too many loose ends had me in knots, and I couldn’t give Anne reason to think her daughter was dead.

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CHAPTER 25

My watch read a little after seven when I woke the next morning. My body ached, with bruising appearing from yesterday’s beating. My brain flickered to realise that tonight was the fetish party at the Grand Pacific Hotel. But I still didn’t know what time it was on, let alone what I’d wear.

After I’d showered and had breakfast, I drove back down the hill to the foreshore. Despite the families and tourists clogged Mountjoy Parade and the surrounding streets, I eventually found a car park. The idea of donning fishnets and heels didn’t grab me, unlike the former foreign minister who’d copped a ribbing for it about twenty years back. I wanted to remain inconspicuous in a crowd full of misfit exhibitionists. A trip into one of the few cheaper clothing stores provided something appropriate, before I headed down the party aisle of the nearby supermarket and made a purchase. I hope it’d work.

Several hours passed before I felt ready to go. Thoughts washed through my brain like the ocean breaking against rocks as I felt the need to recuperate from yesterday’s beating a little before I got dressed. Black shoes, pants, jacket, and matching skivvy – I hope I looked the part, that I’d fit in. I gaped at the mirror – Jesus, I looked more ridiculous than I felt.

In the car, I checked the rear-view mirror and peered at the lights from the motel’s restaurant. A couple of people appeared to be having a late supper, others a nightcap. It was around ten thirty. I figured it was time to go.

Ahead, the street’s neon glittered and glimmered in the distance, beckoning the town’s night crawlers to its heat. I dug out a tape from the glove box and shoved it in the stereo. John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers Steppin’ Out echoed around the car.

About twenty minutes later, the car pulled up outside the Grand Pacific Hotel. The place was lit up like Luna Park with spotlights above the windows and doorways, and the third and second-level balconies. I slowly motored into the car park, but found it strangely empty, and then passed the side entrance where I’d seen Sophie escape behind the green door. A thickset man now stood beside it. He was smoking a cigarette while mouthing into a phone. I didn’t recognise him. I killed the motor and donned a black Zorro mask and trilby. The fella at the door eyeballed me as I approached. I 211 didn’t know why nobody else was here. He shuffled in the dark, before shining a torch in my face.

‘Evening,’ he said gruffly, sucking down his smoke.

His voice was low and round – like Erskine’s but without hope. He wore a black suit, shoes and overcoat. His head was shaved and face was around, with a line of piercings along one ear. He didn’t smile.

‘Yeah,’ I said, shoving my hands into my pockets.

‘The code, sir?’ he inquired.

‘What?’

‘To enter the establishment, sir, you must enter the code.’

Oddly, his words didn’t match his look, but I didn’t argue. The code, what is it? My heart pounded and resonated in my head as I tentatively raised my hand toward the electronic security pad and gingerly pressed the keys: 3-3-8-4-7-4: FETISH.

The lock crunched as sweat trickled down my body. Then the fella opened the door.

‘Do you know if it’s already started?’ I asked, and stepped through the doorway.

He stared blankly past me. ‘Have a pleasant evening, sir,’ he said.

The door closed behind me, as I considered if there was a way out once I was in. Flickering candles led me down a dark, brick staircase towards the basement. Music vibrated through the walls. It was nothing I knew.

The stairs led me down to another door, and another security key pad. I pressed the same keys, and quietly waited, then the door unlocked. My stomach was stuck in my throat as I opened the door. Noise, smells, and light shattered my senses. The room reeked of bodies, sweat, and rubber. Under a blue neon strip, a bar stood on the left- hand side of the room. A strobe light filtered images of people stalking others like prey in front of small groups of onlookers seated against the walls or propped up against bar tables. Then, in the corner of the room, I noticed an empty cage. Fear gripped me. The cage was large enough to contain a human being. I hoped it wouldn’t be me. 212

I approached the bar, conscious of what was going on around me, and who might be there. Then someone brushed past, eyeballing me from behind a leather gimp mask. His mouth was zipped shut, except for a slit from which he drank a drink through a straw. Jesus! I needed a drink. Two women and a bloke operated the bar, wearing white and black make-up, metal mesh tops and leather g-strings. Instead of seeking alcohol, I just ordered a Coke and poured it into a glass, before taking in the view. I needed to remain straight. A jukebox was propped at the other end of the bar, lit-up in chrome and neon green. My eyes then veered over to the cage, and then along the back wall. I couldn’t make out a single face, everyone’s features being covered one way or another. The strobe flickered and pulsed as I scanned the rest of the room, watching people get-off on whatever and whoever it happened to be. Then, suddenly, the music changed.

The song ran a chill through me as the words gradually became familiar. Bobby Vee’s The Night Has a Thousand Eyes soared through the room. I felt pale under my sweaty Zorro mask and turned toward the crowd. Whoever’d picked the tune was a good age, and knew their music.

Suddenly, a person hovered next to me. I could hardly see who it was. Then she spoke.

‘You! I know you,’ she moaned in my ear.

I eyeballed her. ‘Do you?’ I said, through Bobby Vee’s voice.

‘It’s me, Mel, Cassandra’s room-mate at Deakin,’ she said. ‘I recognised you when you walked in.’

‘Am I that obvious?’

She was dressed in a black body stocking. Her nipples were pierced, and a small tattoo straddled her bikini line. I wondered where she kept her keys.

‘What’re you doing here?’ I said, peering over her shoulder. ‘How’d you find out about this?’

She opened a small purse clutched in her hand. ‘I was given a card by someone at a local shop; she said she was a friend of Cassandra – Sarah maybe? I was curious,’

213 she said as she glanced past me, then eyeballed me and touched my wrist. ‘It’s fucking wild, isn’t it?’

Then she stroked my chest, before I grabbed her hand. ‘Be careful, you don’t want to end up like Cassandra,’ I said.

Her smile disappeared under the flickering light. I released my grip, and then she walked away into the shadows. I guessed Sarah was Sophie.

My drink ran dry before I crept along the bar like a wallflower hoping no one wanted a dance, and watched shadows run away from themselves. Bobby Vee had stopped singing, before the disc flipped to another song. The sound shimmied around the room to You Don’t Own Me by Lesley Gore. I moved along a wall as voices, calls, moans, laughter, grabbed at me, before something in shiny leather was led into the cage. People were snorting and licking lines on the bar, tables, body parts, before devouring each other like creatures from a scene in Burroughs’ Naked Lunch. The song ended before Bobby Darin’s Dream Lover swirled through the smoky air. Then a strange, queer voice made me listen, but I couldn’t tell where it came from.

‘Sweet Candy sucked, so good!’ the voice said.

The words held me as everything around me seemed to stop and become silent. The voice was familiar. It sounded like him. I wondered if it was him, if it was Shaw?

His words echoed in my head from the SIM card footage – telling Cassandra – his Candy – what to do.

Jesus! He must be behind this.

Then the song changed to something I recognised – grinding metal, the same shit that was on the SIM card footage. He must’ve been close, but I couldn’t see him. Suddenly, I thought I’d spotted him, and snaked my way through the crowd toward him, before two guys in just a pair of chaps and girls wearing nothing but piercings and gas masks fronted me. Fuck! The only thing now I could see were the pleasures of the flesh. I tried to get past them but saw that Shaw was gone. Then, somewhere in the distance, was a girl with a shock of blonde hair. Could it be Cassandra?

I followed the girl past people doing things to others that only happen in strange dreams, before she disappeared behind a door. The sound from the jukebox 214 penetrated my body as I passed more oddities ’til I found the door. It opened easily revealing a flight of stairs up a spiral case, before I found another door. It was locked. I continued to climb the dark steps ’til I found another door. It opened with a shove, and then I discovered the outside world. The fella who’d been at the door was gone, but the car park was now full. I ran around the building for another entrance, but the only door was to the public bar, and that was closed. I didn’t know if it was Cassandra, or if she was still in there, somewhere.

My watch read around three AM. Sweat ran down my face as I ditched the mask, and eventually found my car. Images of that pit flashed before me as I drove past Lorne’s neon-soaked blur, back toward the motel.

215

CHAPTER 26

My mind was wired like a fucking fuse box. My body shook as scenes from the fetish party materialised in my head like Bosch’s vision of hell – unsure if I’d got-off on what I’d seen, or if it’d made me sick. I needed to find Sophie, fast. She had to know what’d happened to Cassandra.

I never reached the motel, and instead drove around to Erskine’s place. No cars were in the drive. I got out, knocked on the front door – no answer, then sat back in the car and waited. About twenty minutes passed before I left and then drove past Anne’s house, and then around the surrounding streets. Sophie’s car was nowhere in sight. Then I headed back to Erskine’s house, decamped out the front and smoked cigarettes ’til I fell asleep with Bobby Darin’s dulcet tones still swirling in my head.

The trill of singing birds woke me at sunrise, but I found the joint still dead. The air was thick with wet eucalyptus and damp bark. A small white van chugged up and down the street, dispensing rolled newspapers onto driveways, before it disappeared out of view. Nothing happened, so I drove down along the main drag, bought a take-away coffee from a bakery, and then made my way back to the motel. Just as the key wedged into the keyhole of my door, my mobile buzzed. It was Janice. It’d just ticked six thirty. What the hell was she calling me for at this time of day?

‘Frank, I’m at the office,’ she said, catching her breath.

‘What the fuck are you doing there?’ I blurted, opening the door to my room. ‘What’s wrong, you alright?’

‘Frank, somebody’s broken in. The alarm went off, alerting the landlord, who called the police.’

‘Okay! Any damage?’

‘Well, no, not really, not inside as far as I can see. The door is–’

‘How’d they get in?’

‘By the look of it, they came up by the fire escape, forced the back door, and then broke into the office. I don’t like it, Frank. I feel violated.’

216

Janice sounded vulnerable; her voice was softer than usual – something was wrong.

‘You’ll be okay, just take it easy,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Has anything been taken?’

‘Things have been moved around, but as far as I can tell, nothing is missing.’

I sat on the edge of the bed, sipped from the take-away cup and pictured Janice standing next to her desk – receiver in one hand and clutching the cord with the other.

‘Are the cops there, yet?’

‘Yes, the police are here now,’ she said. ‘They say that you need to be here to declare if anything’s been taken.’

‘Bullshit! They don’t need me there – you know what’s there. I can’t leave now – I’m too close to ending this fucking case. You’ll have to deal with it.’

Silence.

‘Fine, Frank,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

‘You’re okay, aren’t you?’

‘To be honest, Frank, NO! I didn’t want to be woken at fucking five-thirty and be told that we’d been broken into. So, Frank, I’m not okay!’

‘Right then.’

Silence.

‘Frank, the police just asked me if you had anything here of any importance?’

‘It’s my office, of course there’s stuff of importance–’

Janice sighed. ‘Yeah, I know that, Frank. They want to know if there was anything of real importance, regarding a case, perhaps. Is there something that’s important to your case?’

My mind retraced my steps – items from my desk drawer I’d taken back to my flat, including the SIM card and its footage of Candy. Everything else was safe. The only people who knew I had it were Anne, Larry and Rebecca.

217

Then my fingers automatically clicked – Rebecca. Anne had enquired about it the other night at the bar in Lorne. But she wouldn’t be up to this type of caper. Rebecca appeared the more likely candidate. She’d wanted the SIM card. She wanted to see what was on it, and maybe had someone total my motel room to find it. This could’ve been her next step. Maybe her, and the fella who’d used my head as a welcome mat at my motel room, had broken in, or someone else connected to her. It could’ve been a random hit, but I doubted it – coincidence doesn’t ring twice.

‘Janice, there’s nothing there,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ve just arrived back in my motel room after seeing things nobody should. I need a shower and a change of clothes. I’ve gotta go.’

‘So, what do I tell the police, Frank? I really don’t want to, and shouldn’t have to do this on my own. I have a bad feeling about this.’

‘You’ll be right. Just report anything that’d been taken, otherwise, keep quiet. I don’t need a couple of uniforms sticking their beaks in where it’s not wanted.’

‘Okay, fine,’ she sighed, and hung up.

The office’d been broken-into a few years back, but that break-in didn’t get the same reaction. She was rattled by it, but I couldn’t be in two places at once. Jesus! I was a private dick, not friggin’ Superman.

218

CHAPTER 27

After I’d shaved, showered, and dressed in my usual attire, I headed across the gravel car park to the motel’s restaurant. The weather was good, with a shiny blue sky. But down here, who could tell what the skies would do next. I found a table, ordered breakfast and mulled over last night’s events – where Cassandra could be, why Shaw was there and why he had made her perform, and if she was still alive? About half an hour had passed when I called Janice to contact the insurance company, and get someone to fix the door. She said she’d already had. Then wondered why I’d called. I thought of calling Erskine about Rebecca, but figured that he wasn’t yet ready to know. I had to find Sophie. I tried her number but got nothing more than a dial tone.

Sunlight glistened on the restaurant’s windows, bathing the building in warmth as I bought a newspaper and then headed back to my room. My body was still sore and bruised from yesterday’s beating in the alleyway. A drink would’ve dulled the pain, but I wasn’t in a drinking mood. I sat on the bed and thumbed the headlines. Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

‘Frank Carver?’ a male voice said.

I recognised it, but didn’t like it as I left the bed and then peered through the spy-hole. Detectives Lane and Chase stood there like a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses – either way, I wasn’t interested in what they were selling. My watch read around eight o’clock. What the fuck are they doing here?

I let them knock again, and then opened the door. ‘This is a treat; if I’d known you were coming I would’ve ordered cake,’ I smirked.

Lane extended his hand and I shook it. ‘Frank,’ he said, with a slight smile.

‘How’d you know I was here?’ I murmured. ‘What do you want?’

‘Janice told us you were staying here,’ Lane said. ‘We came by earlier, but you weren’t in–’

‘But you are, now,’ Chase interjected with a dark grin.

‘Jeeze Roy, he’s quick; I’ll give him that.’

‘Frank, things aren’t good,’ said Lane. ‘I think we should talk inside.’ 219

‘What’s wrong Roy, still off the coffee and it’s getting you down?’

I let them in and closed the door. Suddenly, Chase shoved his stubby finger toward me. ‘Don’t be a smartarse,’ he snarled. ‘You’re in a shitload of trouble.’

‘Uh-huh, so what have I done wrong?’

I sat near the door and tried not to let the fat prick get the better of me, as Lane pulled-up a chair and gazed out the window with a despondent stare. His fat friend then reclined on the bed like he owned the joint.

‘You’re in a lot of trouble, Carver,’ said Chase, spreading his thick fingers across the bed. ‘There’s a young fella in hospital – ICU, because of you, you know that?’

I ignored him and peered at Lane. ‘What’s your dog barking on about?’

Lane turned toward me. ‘Enough, Frank,’ Lane said. ‘He’s right. You’re in serious trouble. We have information you assaulted the man. Is that true?’

‘What man?’

‘His name is Mitch Jeffrey,’ Chase snarled. ‘Aged twenty-two, slim build, approximately one sixty-five centimetres. He wore a faded yellow t-shirt, jeans and sneakers – ring any bells, Carver? It should. We have a bunch of witnesses who put you at the scene – a parking lot behind Mountjoy Parade, at approximately two yesterday afternoon.’

‘Sounds about right, but did your witnesses also tell you the kid was being chased, then bundled into a car before I was beaten-up. The kid was scared out of his wits. Look, I only spoke with him for a minute. He had information vital to my case–’

‘Then you beat him to a pulp?’ interrupted Chase. ‘I’ve read your file, Carver – it’s not the first time you’ve dismantled someone’s face for information, is it?’

‘Look, the kid was pulling my chain – I grabbed his arm, but I didn’t hit him. He told me about the missing girl – Cassandra – where she’d been taken, but he was shit scared. I wanted to help but was too late.’

Lane, in his dark grey suit and black polished shoes, slowly stood. I followed his lead, before Chase swung around on the bed, and got up. His belly jiggled under 220 his loose white shirt, grey tie, and dark blue suit. His black boots were scuffed. They looked like steel-caps.

Chase leaned in close. ‘Fairsuckofthesav mate, but your bullshit isn’t going to wash this time,’ he smirked, prodding his forefinger into my chest. ‘We’ve got some credible witnesses who say you assaulted the boy, hurt him pretty bad.’

‘What does the kid say about this?’

Lane shifted his body toward me. ‘Not much – his jaw’s wired,’ Lane moaned, clutching his chin. ‘He’s also got several other fractures. He’s lucky to be alive. Now, unless he or someone else can corroborate your story, you could be facing some pretty stiff charges, Frank. I’m sorry.’

I sat and rolled a cigarette. Chase perched his fat arse on the corner of the bed, while Lane hovered near the door. Chase watched me, looking for the slightest indication of something that could give him a bone to chew.

‘You know, the more I hear about you the less I like,’ Chase grunted. ‘Since you’ve been on this case of yours, there’s been a girl found dead in a backpacker hostel, a young man who’s more bruised than last year’s fruit, and who knows what else. Seems like since you’ve been here, Carver, people keep turning up in bad shape! Why would that be?’

I slid the Zippo from my pocket and burnt the end of the cigarette, blowing smoke into the fat fucker’s face.

Lane turned my way, before Chase opened his trap, again. ‘Anything you want to say, Carver?’

‘Not at present.’

Silence hit the room like a shadow had been cast across the sun; the only sound was the bristling of burning tobacco. I waited for Chase to slip out a pair of cuffs.

‘Err, Frank, what’s the go with the black skivvy and the Zorro mask on the chair over there?’ asked Lane, attempting to lighten the mood as he pointed to a cloaked chair on the other side of bed. ‘You haven’t worn that, have you?’

221

‘Remember that fancy dress party I told you about? I was there last night,’ I said, expelling smoke through my nostrils.

‘What did you go as... the boy wonder?’ Chase sniggered.

Both Lane and I ignored him. ‘So, whose party was it?’ said Lane.

‘Heard of a fella by the name of Eddie Shaw?’

‘Nope.’

‘Heard of Shawline Developments?’

‘Hmm rings a bell, they’re meant to be building some apartments down the coast somewhere–’

‘Anglesea. There’s to be apartments built at Anglesea.’

‘Okay, what about it?’

‘Eddie Shaw was there–’

‘So he throws a party, big deal,’ Chase said, shifting his weight.

‘Yeah, but this was no ordinary disco and fucking swizzle sticks – this was a hard-core fetish party – cocaine, ecstasy and who knows what else – debauchery of the kind you don’t tell your wife about, if you get my drift. Or maybe you do?’

Chase leaned forward. ‘Alright slippery dick, so what’s Shaw got to do with anything?’ he said, with an eye on Lane.

I got up and paced a little as both of them watched me in case I did a runner. ‘Because Shaw’s voice is on the footage of the missing girl – on the SIM card I found. I’ve already explained all this to Lane, here.’

‘How do you know, Carver? See him did you? What’d he wear – pink tutu and tights?’ Chase smirked.

‘I couldn’t tell what he was wearing, it was too dark, but I heard him and saw his face.’

‘You heard him? Chase said slyly.

‘I recognised his voice–’ 222

‘His voice?’ he said.

‘And his face. Look, I met him a few weeks ago, when I arrived down here. There was something about him, a little different to your regular type of guy. But I could tell it was him – Shaw has the face of a Doberman with a Chihuahua’s yap, a real queer voice. Plus, the things he said about Cassandra – he’d called her Candy – saying the same words in the footage. Look damn it, I know it was him.’

Chase leaned toward Lane. ‘Sounds a bit thin to me, Detective Sergeant, what d’ya think? I reckon he’s trying to cover his tracks.’

‘Think what you like,’ I muttered. ‘I’ve been on it all night, before I got a call two hours ago from Janice saying we’d been broken into.’

‘Broken into?’ Lane chirped.

Then I walked over to Chase and eyeballed him. ‘If you’re gonna charge me with something lard-o, then do it. Anyway, you’ve got no proof, just hearsay.’

Lane moved in and prevented his partner from taking a crack, before I stepped away and sat down. ‘C’mon Frank, take it easy,’ said Lane.

Chase growled something undesirable under his breath.

‘I told you what happened, Roy – about the girl, Cassandra,’ I said. ‘That kid, Mitch, was in the footage as well. I reckoned he knew where she was and was about to tell me, but they weren’t gonna let that happen. That’s why he’s ended up in bloody intensive care and I’m black and blue.’ I lifted my shirt and displayed the bruises across my torso. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I’m pretty sure Shaw’s behind all this. I just need to find out why.’

‘Okay, and who’s they?’ said Chase, as he heaved himself forward.

‘I reckon Shaw has some heavies on-board – bikies maybe. I bet they’re supplying the drugs – ice and heroin probably, and whatever else. And, by the way Cassandra and this Mitch looked they were on something – up to their eyeballs on it. But bikies are your department. I’m only interested in finding the girl.’

Lane paced the floor like some about-to-be father waiting for his old lady to pop – then stopped and stroked his chin. He wandered over to the window, flicked the

223 shade and gazed out to the car park. Chase leaned on the side table, padding his fat paws all over it as he surveyed the room, before he peered at Lane, wondering what he’d say next. Lane then turned, shoved his hands in his pockets, and twisted his tight mouth in thoughtful consideration. I gazed through the window and tried to ignore them both, before grabbing the newspaper and flicking though ’til I’d found an advertisement for the proposed Shawline Developments project.

‘See this?’ I said, prodding the double-page spread. ‘This dive in Anglesea is to be bull-dozed.’ I thought about telling them about the witness my journo mate had told me about, who’d reckoned he’d seen the girl, and some heavy-set types, outside the place – probably sparring partners with the same chums that gave me, and this Mitch fellow, a thumping. Maybe I’d hold on to that information a little longer in case I needed it. ‘Cassandra and Mitch were filmed inside this house. Her old man, Larry Erskine, who owns Erskine Real Estate, even sold the site to Shawline Developments. I’m telling you, Shaw’s involved.’

‘How do you know that?’ Lane said, appearing more interested.

‘I went there yesterday. The shit-hole had been fenced-off, apparently ready to go. But while it stands, it links Shaw to everything – the front room was used in the footage.’

Then I grabbed my phone and showed them the pictures I’d taken in the house. Lane wiped his mouth in disgust, while Chase produced a little snort.

‘But, why, Frank? Why is Shaw doing this?’ Lane probed.

‘Because I guess the fucker can,’ I groaned. ‘Maybe he’s got something over Erskine, I don’t know. I’m still trying to add the threads together, but either way, it ain’t pretty. Maybe he’s part of something bigger. I don’t know.’

Lane stroked his chin. ‘Alright Frank, it sounds like something may be believable... even from you,’ he moaned. ‘We’re going to have to take a look at this SIM card, Frank, and those images on your phone as evidence.’

‘Okay, I’ll get you copies, but I don’t have the SIM card here,’ I said.

‘Well, where is it?’ said Lane.

224

‘It’s safe.’

Chase leaned in, ‘Not withholding evidence are ya, Carver? That’s an offence.’

‘Piss off. If I’d wanted to withhold evidence I wouldn’t have told you about it, would I?’

Chase’s face revealed the cogs turning inside his fat head. He then stopped pawing at the table. ‘Detective Lane says you’d discovered the SIM card in the girl’s dorm at Deakin Uni, is that right?’ he said.

‘Yeah, now whether she put it there or not, I don’t know, but somebody wanted it found.’

‘So, you think the missing girl is involved in some kind of porn ring?’ Chase probed.

‘Yeah, the girl, and this Mitch fella, and probably the dead girl found in the backpacker hotel – they got roped-in with inducements – money perhaps, and then drugs. But, with only a one-way ticket out.’

Chase wiped his brow. ‘And this is happening here, in Lorne? Sounds like bullshit to me?’

‘Fine. Don’t believe me. But think about it. Who’d suspect it in Lorne? All that family-friendly fun and frivolity. Nobody. Everybody’s too busy looking after number one down here.’

Chase slid away from the table. He started grinding his teeth as if the cogs in pea-sized brain weren’t loud enough. ‘Hmm, sounds plausible I s’ppose, but who’s hooking them in? And more importantly, why?’ he said.

‘Erskine’s wife, Rebecca, started giving me the run around – being all coy, playing games before asking me about the footage on the SIM card. She wanted to see the footage. Maybe she and Shaw are in cahoots. I reckon she had some thug give me a beating, before I’d found that I’d been stripped down to the essentials and the room here trashed, looking for it. They never found it, which is why I reckon my office now has been turned over.’

225

Lane shuffled his feet and eyeballed the advertisement in the newspaper. ‘Okay, so what’s her connection to Shaw?’ he said.

‘Apparently Rebecca was introduced to Erskine through Shaw at some real estate conference a couple of years back, but I reckon there’s more to it than that. This was not long after Erskine’s marriage had gone down the gurgler. Then, a little while later – bob’s your uncle – she then hooks-up with Erskine playing the younger second wife.’

‘What does Erskine reckon?’ asked Chase.

‘I told him about the footage – course he was upset. I didn’t tell Anne, his ex, much about it – thought it’d be too hard for her. Anyway, I asked him about Shaw, but he reckoned he was on the money – thought the sun shone out of his arse – had brought in plenty of cash and prestige for his business, and completely dismissed the idea Shaw had anything with anything, let alone his missing daughter.’

‘Alright Carver,’ said Chase. ‘Sounds like this Rebecca character is being played, or is a player. Anyway, so what now?’

‘Huh,’ I said, killing the smoke in the ashtray. ‘Now I find Cassandra’s friend, Sophie. She’s mixed up in all this; she’s the missing piece in the puzzle. Apart from mangled Mitch, I reckon she knows where I can find Cassandra.’

Lane opened the door and started to walk out, ‘Come on,’ he said, gesturing to Chase. ‘I want the SIM card and those pictures, Frank. If you’re right about this, as you think you are, prove it. I’ll be expecting your call.’

Lane then walked out followed closely by Chase.

A moment later, after making a coffee and dosing myself up on codeine, I called Sophie’s number. The dial tone droned in my head. No answer. Then I tried Erskine’s mobile hoping for better luck.

‘Hullo, Larry Erskine of Erskine Real Estate,’ he said, with a light tone.

‘Mr Erskine! Carver here,’ I said.

‘Ah, Mr Carver, I was hoping that–’

226

‘Look, do you have another number I could reach Sophie on? I’ve tried her mobile. I need to–’

‘Cassandra and Simon’s friend? Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘This phone’s breaking up; bloody mobiles are sodding useless half the time. Ah, I don’t know... I’m at a bloody real estate seminar in Melbourne – bullshit events mostly. I’m sure she’s around. Have you tried Anne?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Eh, whasthat? Why’re ya after Sophie?’

‘She’s involved–’

‘Eh, whasthat? Sorry mate, the line’s bloody hopeless. I better go. I’ll be back about three, I reckon.’

‘What?’

Static fuzzed into my ear, before Erskine hung up.

The idea of now finding Sophie at Anne’s or Erskine’s house flickered in my mind, but chances were slim. But it was still a chance. I called Anne’s house but got nothing. I then tried Rebecca’s number –more dial tone. Then I tried Erskine’s real estate agency. The line rang through but the reception was lousy, with the voice on the other end breaking up. I decided it was just easier to hang up and go there myself.

About ten minutes later I’d parked across the street from Erskine’s office. I killed the engine, and walked across the road. The office windows were dressed with lines of house photographs and a large display of Shawline Development’s proposed apartment complex, attached to gleaming metal wires and suspended under glowing LED spotlights. If potential buyers knew what lay behind the image, maybe they’d think twice. Behind the glass, office staff and sales reps were pumping clients for information with smiles as fake as their tans. I still didn’t buy it.

The bell dinged lightly as I pushed open the door. Behind a large computer screen, a dolled-up brunette sat sipping chai from a takeaway cup, tapping her keyboard. In the background, a radio buzzed with a song I didn’t know.

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‘Good morning, can I help you?’ the brunette said with a glossy smile. Her hair was swept across her brow and fell neatly onto her shoulders. Her makeup appeared like it’d been plastered on with a spatula above a white blouse, scarf, and black pants.

‘Is Erskine in?’ I said, knowing he wasn’t. ‘I need to see him.’

‘No, I’m sorry Mr Erskine isn’t in, today,’ she said, glancing to a male colleague.

‘Look I just called, the name’s Carver. Is Rebecca in?’

‘Err, what is this–’

I didn’t wait for her answer, charged up the stairs to Erskine’s room, and found nobody in.

The woman from reception was followed by her male colleague. ‘Excuse me sir, what is it you want?’ she said. ‘I told you sir that neither Mister or Misses Erskine are here.’

‘No, you told me Erskine wasn’t here; you didn’t say anything about Rebecca.’ I flashed my ID in front of her. ‘Look, I’m trying to find his daughter.’

‘They’re at a real estate seminar in Melbourne; they will be back later this afternoon.’

‘Rebecca’s with him?’

‘Yes, they went together.’

I left.

The traffic was solid as I drove through town, not helped by a string of red lights along the main drag, as I considered my next move.

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CHAPTER 28

A little while later, I drove around town, bought a takeaway coffee, and then headed towards Anne’s house. It didn’t take long before I’d reached her address, had a slow gawk, before hooking a U-turn and pulling up a few doors back. No cars were in the drive – the house appeared quiet, empty. I rolled a cigarette, wound down the window and breathed out a lungful of smoke. The thick, sticky air smelt sweet with the aroma of rain and eucalyptus and filled the car. The sky had again turned an ominous shade, with thickening purple and grey clouds. I grabbed my mobile and dialled Anne’s home number. No response. My face was greasy, and my shirt clung to my chest like a damn straightjacket. The humidity started to get at me, sapping my mind and body like a fucking leech.

I left and drove back down the hill to Mountjoy Parade. Along the way, an unmarked grey-coloured Ford Transit passed. The plates were the same as I’d seen outside the dive in Anglesea. It kept a steady pace as I maintained a discernible distance behind. Traffic slowed to a grind as the sunlight dimmed under the threatening sky. The van then travelled along roads I didn’t recognise. I tried to keep up, but the driver’d worked the streets well, like a politician looking for re-election. Then I lost it as I became stuck in a maze of streets I didn’t know, in a town I didn’t like.

The humidity had climbed a notch. I loosened my tie, dragged off my jacket and unpeeled my shirt sleeves as I drove round looking for an exit. Eventually I found a street that appeared familiar, and then found another ’til I reached a road that led me to Erskine’s address. When I arrived, the van was parked out front. I pulled up behind a car, a couple doors down from the house and left the motor running. My watch now read around ten. I wound down the window for some fresh air, before the heavens opened and dumped rain. Then I rolled another smoke and waited.

About twenty minutes later, two people got out of the van. A man held a young woman by the back of her arm, tight. He looked like the fella I’d met outside the Grand Pacific Hotel – the same guy I’d seen at the derelict house in Anglesea – crew-cut, thick set, wearing black t-shirt, jeans and boots. I figured he was also the goon who’d

229 used my head a football as I’d opened the door to the motel room when he was looking for the SIM card that Rebecca wants so bad.

I didn’t recognise the young woman – peroxide blonde, and wearing a dark knee-length dress and black flats. I couldn’t see her face.

My mind ran in circles wondering if it was Cassandra. It couldn’t be.

He hurried her to the front door like he wanted to leave in a rush, before she produced a key and stepped inside. He mouthed something to her through the rain, and then plodded back to the van like a gorilla after eating a rotten banana. He stepped inside, pulled a U-turn, and then headed straight toward me. I slid onto the passenger seat and watched the van pass, then sat up and followed it in the rear-view mirror ’til it passed out of sight. A couple of minutes passed. It didn’t come back.

Under dark skies, the house appeared like a two-storey mausoleum. In the distance, Lorne glimmered like a dull jewel, yet through wet misery its spectacle was entrancing, luring me like Ulysses to sirens straddled on rocky outcrops in the Aegean. My body slid back into the driver’s seat and I cast my eyes back into the rear-view mirror: still no van. I checked my watch. Time felt like it had slowed, but an hour had passed since I left the motel.

I dialled Lane’s number. He said curtly that he couldn’t talk, but was still in the area on another matter and would call me back. I wanted to know if I could call on the cops should things get into a jam with Erskine or Shaw.

Erskine’s house seemed cold and dead, before a dim light appeared in the lounge room window. I slid out of the car and felt the rain slap my face like a wet towel. The humidity had dropped as sparks of lightning cracked through the sky, followed by rumbling thunder. I didn’t bother knocking when I reached the front door. I peered back at the car, the neighbours – no one around, just grey emptiness, like the dead waiting to inhabit a graveyard. I wondered how death would deal its hand, if it hadn’t already. The waters of Louttit Bay, in the distance, were dark, and strangely calm. Suddenly, the door opened, but no one was there. I dug out my mobile and pressed record. Whoever was there, I wanted their words recorded whether they knew it or not.

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I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The dim lamplight in the lounge room cast a shadow over a figure I didn’t immediately recognise. Nobody else was around.

Then I heard a familiar voice. ‘Hello, Mr Carver,’ the figure said.

‘Hello, Sophie.’

The gas log fired flickered in the background. She appeared older than when I saw her last, outside the Grand Pacific Hotel. Her ruddy complexion was amplified under the light, defining her cheekbones and pouted lips, but the tousled blonde look had hardened her soft features, framing them cold. Her dress was crinkled and damp from the rain, like it belonged to somebody else, as it hung over her bare legs and feet.

‘What led you back here, Mr Carver?’ she said.

‘A hunch.’

‘A hunch?’

‘Uh-huh. I gotta hunch that says you’re up to your neck in it and there’s no way out unless you take the same ride as the girl in the hostel. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘You’re making things up; trying to trick me.’

‘I don’t play games, that’s other people’s bent. Now how about you tell me what’s going on. Where’s Candy?’

She turned toward me. ‘How?–’

‘How’d I know Cassandra was Candy, well you gave it away when you and Simon were at Anne’s place for dinner last week, calling her by that name. Then I heard the name again last night, from a man I’m sure you know.’

I moved closer to her, almost within arm’s reach. ‘I’m surprised you weren’t there, at the party,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you get an invite? Or maybe you were too busy trying to take a pot shot at me!’

She glared at me but remained still like a porcelain doll, like she was unsure if she should move her body or not, let alone blink. Her facial features and peroxide do gave her an alluring, exotic look, enticing me as I moved an inch closer, now within

231 reach. My pulse quickened. Her hand dropped into her dress pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one, and then blew smoke through her pouted lips.

‘You know that’s bad for your health,’ I said with wrinkled grin.

‘Lots of things are bad for your health these days – a girl can’t live without somebody telling her what she can and can’t do,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that.’

‘And I don’t like getting shot at, let alone being taken for a ride. So, why’d you pull the trigger, and how’d you get into Braithwaite’s house? And, how about you tell me who’s behind this? You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?’

She reluctantly nodded her head.

I wanted her to say his name so it was recorded as evidence. ‘Okay, so tell me.’

Her chin hit her chest as her eyes looked away. I grabbed her arms and gently shook her. ‘Tell me his name, damn it. Don’t make me say it again.’

Sophie raised her eyes while her chin remained locked, then she shifted her body closer to me. My grip on her loosened as she opened her mouth.

‘Shaw,’ she said. ‘I don’t know his first name; I just know Shaw. I’ve never even met him – don’t know any more about him.’

‘Ok, and why is Rebecca involved? What have you got to do with her? What’s she doing with Shaw?’

Her shoulders fell away as I mentioned Rebecca’s name. She took a drag from her cigarette, and then glanced around for an ashtray. A glass bowl sat on a side table, behind which stood the black and white photograph of Rebecca. Sophie then shifted to the table, tapped her cigarette a couple of times as ash fell into the bowl, and then stared at Rebecca’s face. I eyeballed her, before she glared at me and then started to cry, dropping the smouldering cigarette in the bowl. For a moment, I wondered if the tears were real, but then she sobbed, wiping her nose with her forearm like a kid who’d fallen over in the dirt. The tears looked real enough.

My eyes remained on Rebecca’s image as lightning suddenly brightened the room for a split second, quickly followed by a distant clap of thunder. The storm was heading out to sea.

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The warmth from the fire had dried my clothes, but the heat in the room became intense. I turned and found Sophie unzipping her dress. Suddenly, she lurched and kissed my mouth. Her pert breasts pressed firm against me, as her hands felt my body and tried to get me aroused. It almost worked, before I grabbed her hands and shoved her away.

‘No, you’re not going to do that,’ I said.

Then she tried it again, before I grabbed her arms tight. Her eyes widened with surprise, before welling-up. Then she covered herself up with her dress and slumped back into the couch.

A moment passed, before I questioned her again. Sophie wiggled further into the black leather couch next to Rebecca’s photograph. Strangely, I felt Rebecca’s smiling glare on my face and was struck motionless. I peered at Sophie, who’d slowly raised her eyes toward me.

The weather had changed again with patches of blue and sunshine. Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.

‘What?’ she asked with sad curiosity. ‘What is it?’

It’d been in front of me all along, I just hadn’t seen it, and then I wondered if anybody else had. ‘So, when were you gonna tell me that Rebecca is your mother?’ I asked. ‘Did she put you up to do it, to take a shot?’

Sophie turned away from the question, hoping it’d disappear along with the cloud outside.

‘Rebecca’s your mother, isn’t she?’

Her eyes widened in shock. ‘What?’

I knew a stall when I saw one. ‘A hair from your brush, something she’s touched. I can get a DNA match in a day.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said, quietly, as if hoping no one else would hear. Then she spoke. ‘I tried to protect her, that’s all.’

‘Well you’re lucky you’re a lousy shot. So, how’d you get keys into Braithwaite’s place? Wait, let me guess, Rebecca is a lot more friendly with 233

Braithwaite than she let on, huh. What, she gave Braithwaite a sweet deal on the backpacker hostel and whatever he had his mitts on? Was that it?’

Sophie looked away, embarrassed. Then she eyeballed me. ‘Forget about Braithwaite,’ she said. ‘Rebecca’d told me Shaw was someone from the past, her past. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Rebecca said that she hadn’t seen him in about twelve years or so, ’til they were at some real estate conference a couple of years ago. But I think that’s a lie. That’s where Mr Erskine met Rebecca.’

‘Okay, then what?’

‘Well, when Rebecca hooked up with Mr Erskine, we were in Melbourne, before coming down here to–’

‘When was that?’

‘Last year or so.’

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t know about Shaw ’til I was taken to that, that hole in Anglesea.’

Tears welled in her eyes, before I moved a little closer. ‘What about Shaw, where was he in all this?’ I said.

‘He was a step ahead of us. According to Rebecca, he always has been. Even before she’d met Mr Erskine, Rebecca’d told me that Shaw was down here – setting-up a website, making contacts, and getting to know Mr Erskine, and... Cassandra. He seems to be running things, controlling everything.’

She looked away into the distance.

‘Why’d you say that?’

‘Things Rebecca said – he’d appear, disappear, and then reappear; she didn’t know where he would go or when he would come back, but always controlling her. She said she hated him, what he was doing, like it was some sort of act.’

I took a step back and thought about Shaw – his appearance at Cassandra’s seventeenth birthday party, being with Anne outside the cafe, his presence at the fetish party. Coincidences didn’t exist in the real world. Maybe Shaw was another pawn,

234 being played like everybody else, but only Rebecca could confirm this. I figured Shawline Developments was a front for whatever was really happening – getting girls to perform, or worse. The heavies involved, maybe bikies were probably on the same payroll, and if anybody didn’t play along, they’d be out of the game: permanently.

Sophie took a slow breath. If she was right, maybe I had Rebecca wrong – either way Shaw would pay.

‘How did Cassandra become involved?’ I said.

‘Well, when Rebecca and Mr Erskine got together, Candy... I mean Cassandra, and Simon, where both still upset about not living with Anne. It wasn’t that long after Anne and Mr Erskine divorced. During this time, Shaw kept pressuring Rebecca to get new people involved, even suggesting me.’

‘How? Why? Did Shaw have something over Rebecca? Why was she put in that position?’

‘I, I don’t know, she wouldn’t tell me,’ Sophie said before lighting another cigarette. ‘Maybe she owed him money or something, I don’t know. I’m frightened.’

‘Alright, so Shaw pressured Rebecca for you to get involved.’

‘Yeah, and she refused. I heard them over the phone. I’d seen him once; he freaked me out – fucking creep. She was scared. But eventually she gave in and made Cassandra do it instead.’

‘So, she wasn’t jealous of Cassandra being Daddy’s little girl or anything like that? Jealous enough to set her up for a fall with drugs? Jealous enough to lure her into being filmed having sex for Shaw or whoever else?’

‘Wait, you, you know about the film?’ she said, surprised.

‘I found a SIM card in Cassandra’s dorm at Deakin.’

Sophie started sobbing, and slowly nodded her head. I figured she’d hid the SIM card in case something was to happen to her, let alone Cassandra – it was her insurance policy.

She wiped tears from her eyes. ‘Cassandra was becoming too far gone, beyond reach,’ she said. ‘I found out she was stealing, and selling her things to buy drugs from 235 somebody else. I didn’t want Shaw to fucking get away with it. That could’ve been me!’

‘And, Simon?’

‘I tried to get close to him. He seemed suspicious of Rebecca getting too cosy with Cassandra. I couldn’t blame him; Rebecca hardly knew his family when she moved in. But she needed me to play the girlfriend, to keep him side-tracked, I suppose. But it was hard; Simon’s not the easiest person in the world to get along with.’

‘I take it he didn’t know you were Rebecca’s daughter?’

A smiled slipped from her lips. ‘Simon thinks he’s pretty clever, but he’s not that smart. He didn’t know I was her daughter, or that I lived alone in a rental in town.’

‘Who organised that?’

‘Rebecca. She organised everything.

By the sound of it, Rebecca had probably sourced a joint from the Erskine’s real estate agency without his knowledge and maybe used the business to finance it.

‘Okay, so Simon wasn’t aware of any of it?’

‘He never went there; didn’t know anything about it. When I was with him, it was always here, or at Anne’s house. I feel bad for him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was meant to be his, I don’t know... girlfriend I suppose, but I found him too weird.’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘I don’t know, this is pretty weird, but I think he may’ve had something for Cassandra. I know it’s kinda sick. But he didn’t talk about any of the girls at his school, just her.’

Her words echoed around the room as I thought about the images on his computer. I decided not to tell her about them, she’d been through enough.

‘So where is Cassandra? Is she still alive?’ 236

‘I believe she’s been left somewhere, but I’m not sure,’ she said, eyeing the window.

‘The big guy who walked you to the door told you keep your mouth shut, right?’

‘Yeah, how do you know,’ she said, and trembled.

‘Those types generally leave that sort of impression.’

I walked over and held her hand. ‘So, where is she? It’s alright, nothing will happen to you. Just tell me where she could be.’

Sophie glanced out the window as a shadow swept across the front lawn. I plucked my mobile from my coat pocket.

‘Where is she?’ I said.

She started crying, ‘I heard someone say something about the Falls.’

I stopped recording and dialled Anne’s number. The line rang for ages before Anne eventually picked up. I told her where Cassandra was likely to be, that I’d meet her there, but to expect the worst. Anne hung up before I’d stopped talking.

237

CHAPTER 29

The sky had cleared as we drove through the town before veering right and then speeding up the Access Road to the waterfalls where Sophie suggested Cassandra might be. Along the way, Sophie wound down her window. The air was fresh and clean – filled with dripping eucalyptus, and singing birds. She said little as she sat curled in a ball with her knees tucked under her chin like a contortionist. Maybe she was thinking of what she’d say to Anne once we’d arrived, if anything, let alone how Anne would react. It was reason enough for her silence.

The ten-kilometre journey felt like forever. We were running out of time. When we arrived, tall eucalypts and tree ferns hung over the wet, bitumen car park, darkening the area.

The place was empty. Where was Anne? My mind hit a blur wondering why she hadn’t arrived, before refocussing and dialling an ambulance as we rushed to the falls, not really knowing if Cassandra was there or not.

I hadn’t been there since I was a kid when I’d got lost taking a wrong turn from an unknown track, led by its mysterious beauty. I remembered the fear inside me, the claustrophobic hold of the forest, its sounds that strangled my senses as I found myself with no one around. Now I was back.

Sophie led me along a gravel path that climbed up a steep track before descending old railways sleepers, rammed into the hillside, to a wooden deck and a low bridge at the bottom of the falls. The scenery was beautiful, idyllic with thick, lush forest and coursing water – a haven away from the exhausting tourist bustle and insipid lifestyle of the locals. It was a place that only probably a day ago would’ve been hit by a bunch of happy snappers taking pictures of the falls and themselves. Sunlight filtered through trees onto moss covered rocks as I tried to keep dark memories at bay, but there was something about the place, a mystical element that held me in its grip. Then something caught my eye. I gestured to Sophie as we scrambled from the bridge and deck toward moss-covered granite stones, further downstream. Creeping eucalypts, tree ferns, rotten stumps and bracken cloaked our slow, sliding footsteps on the slippery rocks. Then, behind some low hanging branches, it came into view: a naked body.

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Sophie screamed before burying her sobbing face in my shoulder. I stepped closer to the cold lapping water. Suddenly, Anne’s voice soared above the forest canopy. The female body lay sideways in a shallow pool of water between a flat slab rock and reeds. Images hit me of tourists taking photos of the scenery as the body lay here, undisturbed. Her blonde hair crested over small rocks lapped at the rippling waters. I moved closer and lifted her head.

It was Cassandra.

She felt cool, but not cold. I carefully turned her over as blood and water trickled from her mouth. I checked her pulse. Sophie stood motionless as I pumped Cassandra’s chest, and blew hot air into her wet mouth. She was groggy. Her pulse was faint. I covered her in my jacket and carried her back up to the deck, wondering if we were too late. I laid her down. Anne ran towards us, then pushed me away and cradled her daughter. Suddenly a siren echoed above us. The ambos had arrived.

Sophie ran back to get them. A few minutes later, they had covered Cassandra’s body in foil and blankets, placed her on a stretcher, pumped her with adrenaline, and performed CPR. Long minutes passed.

Her grogginess had slipped to nothing.

Then they gave me a look I’d seen before. I turned away, not wanting to feel the emptiness of death again. Anne screamed and sobbed as she held her daughter’s hand to her face. Sophie stood awkwardly on the bridge, not knowing what to do. Cassandra’s body remained lifeless as the ambos gave her another jab of adrenaline, sticking monitors to her chest, checking her eyes, mouth, tongue, lips, fingers, toes, and feeling her body for internal injuries. Then one said that her vitals had improved, before they took her up to the ambulance. I retrieved my jacket as we followed. The ambos didn’t say much.

Frantic, Anne ran toward her car. I asked her if she was good to drive, but she just ignored me. She sped off after the wailing ambulance siren to the hospital at Lorne. I grabbed my mobile and called Erskine’s house. No signal. I felt like throwing it away, and then turned to Sophie. She hugged me, but I kept her at a distance. I couldn’t let her emotions get the better of me. It wasn’t over.

239

We got in the car, and drove back to Erskine’s house. I glanced in the rear-view mirror a final time as the waterfall trailed away. I didn’t want to see the place ever again.

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CHAPTER 30

The scenery along the Erskine Falls Access Road ran past us quicker than I could draw breath. Things were happening too fast, becoming out of control. We reached the town and then a moment later we were parked outside Erskine’s house, and then suddenly we faced the front door. Sophie prised the key from her dress pocket, and let us in. She’d told me Rebecca had given her a key.

Sophie collapsed on the couch, crying. I left her be and brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. She took a few sips before putting her shaking hands over her mouth to hold back a retch, and then staggered to the bathroom. I rolled a cigarette, but found myself flicking the Zippo without lighting the smoke. Then she returned, shaking and clutching her arms with her hands. I wasn’t sure what to with her. I felt numb.

A moment later, Erskine’s BMW muscled into the driveway. I moved away from the window. Erskine and Rebecca walked in. His light grey suit was crinkled from the long drive from Melbourne, while her black skirt, jacket and white blouse appeared as if neatly pressed. They carried expensive-looking luggage in their hands and a weariness drawn across their faces. I didn’t envy either of them, especially Erskine, knowing what I was about to tell him. They eyed me as if I’d just burgled the joint while Sophie sprang out of a chair, and then stood behind me clutching my coat, wondering what’d happen next.

Erskine dumped the luggage on the floor like yesterday’s rubbish. ‘Carver, what the hell are you doing here?’ he groaned. ‘How’d you get in here?’

‘She had a key,’ I said, motioning toward Sophie.

‘Well, how has she got a key to my house, Carver?’

Rebecca twitched, like ants had crawled up her bare legs, as her eyes flickered toward me, then Erskine, before they landed on Sophie.

‘I’ll let Rebecca answer that question,’ I said.

Erskine peered at Rebecca, waiting for a response before she shifted and stared into thin air. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Why has she got a key to my house?’

241

Rebecca remained motionless.

I leaned in. ‘Sophie has a key because she’s Rebecca’s daughter.’

Erskine took a step back as his jaw hit the floor, eyeballing me before glaring at Rebecca, who just stared ahead as a tear streamed down her ashen face. Erskine appeared dazed as he leaned on a chair for some support.

‘I reckon you might wanna sit down,’ I said.

‘What’s going on?’ he croaked, shaking his head, before peering at his younger, second wife. ‘I don’t understand. Rebecca?’

Rebecca said nothing as Erskine sat and loosened his silver-coloured tie. She then dropped her Louis Vuitton bag. It hit the wooden floor with a smack.

Erskine then raised his eyes toward me, ‘For Christ’s sake Carver, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I hired you to find my daughter, not make up stories about my family!’ he boomed.

‘I’ve found Cassandra.’

‘What?’ Erskine leaned more heavily on the chair. ‘She’s alive, isn’t she? Is she alright? Please tell me she’s alive. Where is she?’

‘Cassandra is safe; she’s been taken to hospital. Anne is with her.’

‘What? Where, where did you find her? What’s happening…? Is she alright?’ he said.

‘You should sit.’

Erskine sat while Rebecca remained rigid.

‘She was up at the Falls,’ I said. ‘She was in shallow water. By the look of her, she’d been dumped.’

I kept an eye on Rebecca in case she made a sudden move, and on Erskine, in case he keeled over. ‘The ambos arrived and managed to stabilise her,’ I said. I didn’t want to tell him any more about his daughter’s condition, except that she alive.

Rebecca had yet to talk.

242

I grabbed my phone, making it look as like we’d been interrupted by a text messages, pressed record again and slid it into my pocket.

‘Rebecca, are you going to tell him?’

Rebecca sat motionless.

I told Sophie to fix the happy couple a drink, and made sure the phone was still recording. Then I told them what I knew – about Rebecca, Sophie, and Shaw; the filming in the derelict house at Anglesea; their involvement in Cassandra’s disappearance; and, the proposed apartment complex that was never gonna happen. It was nothing but a total con. Then I explained how Shaw, with Rebecca’s help, had lured new talent in the area with fetish parties, picked young girls from there and plied them with drugs until they were addicted courtesy of an affiliation with bikies, and then made illicit videos of them in the Anglesea house.

‘What the bloody hell are you talking about, Carver?’ Erskine thundered. ‘What the hell’s going on? First, you’re telling me that she’s her daughter, and now... will somebody please tell me the bloody truth!’

My body shifted as I contemplated my next move. Rebecca remained still. Her expression fixed into a distance only she could see.

‘Look, I figured Shaw wanted the SIM card to save his own skin, and pressured Rebecca to retrieve it,’ I said, knowing I now needed to call Lane about all this. ‘She tried to get it, firstly by spiking my drink at the bar, and having one of Shaw’s heavies beat me up and turn over my motel room soon after; and then by having someone break into my office. Cassandra was lucky. Another girl who’d been involved wound up dead, and the fella in the footage with Cassandra is in intensive care.’

Sophie returned with a couple of drinks, slowly nodding in assurance.

Erskine’s hand started to shake. It appeared shock now had him in its grip and wasn’t about to let go. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What’s he talking about, love? Shaw didn’t even know Cassandra. I don’t believe it.’

Rebecca coolly sipped the double-Vodka that Sophie had made her, while Erskine nursed a long scotch as a storm of emotions crossed his face.

243

‘But there are gaps,’ I said. ‘I don’t know it all, only what I could piece together.’

I grabbed Rebecca’s arm, making her stand. ‘You need to tell me what happened,’ I said, tightening my grip.

‘You’re hurting me,’ Rebecca said.

I ignored her. ‘Look, I can’t help you get out of all this mess unless I know the deal. I can’t fix it with the cops unless I know what that bastard coerced you with.’

Rebecca wiped her eyes and peered at me. ‘It’s your move,’ I said, trying to keep the cynicism from my voice. I gradually released my grip as she composed herself.

‘I knew him years ago in Sydney,’ she whispered. ‘I was a single mother, no money and looking for a way out. Then Shaw came along. He gave me opportunities to make some cash, fast, you know–’

‘Doing what?’ Erskine said.

She looked away. ‘Selling, pimping, that sort of thing,’ she said.

‘Did you work for anybody else? How long were you doing this?’ I asked.

‘No, just for Shaw. I worked the north shore, pretty exclusive clientele.’

‘Such as?’ I prompted.

‘There were no names, but I’d heard whispers that the people were pretty high up – politicians, high-ranking police, that sort of thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, after a while I wanted out. Sophie was at school and people were asking questions – mothers from her school wondering why I was driving around in a Merc, making home deliveries of brown paper bags. I realised I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing, so we left.’

‘What, just like that?’ I said. ‘People can’t just escape those lives unless they’re in a morgue.’

Rebecca’s eyes peered away. 244

‘Let me guess, you had left with something of Shaw’s – something he wanted pretty bad,’ I said. ‘What was it? Money, drugs, or something even more valuable?’

My eyes shifted toward Sophie and waited for Rebecca’s response. Was the girl his or not?

‘We came to Melbourne, hoping Shaw wouldn’t find me... us,’ Rebecca said. ‘And he didn’t, ’til a couple of years ago when the game shifted to Melbourne and its play areas, like Lorne.’

‘So Shawline Developments was just a cover for the same business as in Sydney?’

‘It was a way of getting into the area – no one suspected anything. By the time I’d met Larry, it was too late – Shaw’d tracked us down. He had me in his grip. He wanted me back in the game.’

Erskine eyeballed me from the couch. ‘What game?’

‘Drugs, prostitution, amongst other things,’ I said. ‘And, I guess the girls that didn’t play were used for a porn ring, or even sold for sex. Is that right?’

Rebecca slowly nodded her head. ‘I told Shaw I wouldn’t do it,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t do that anymore.’

‘Then what?’

‘So, then he wanted Sophie instead,’ she said, gazing at her. ‘I couldn’t let that happen.’

Sophie looked down at her hands, ‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

Erskine’s face contorted as he said Cassandra’s name, ‘Stay out of it... you, you mean nothing to me now,’ he said, wiping his eyes.

Rebecca shifted her focus from her daughter to her husband. ‘Larry, please... you need to understand that after we’d got together, Shaw knew he could do what he liked, he could do anything... that’s when he wanted Cassandra.’

245

Erskine folded his hands before shoving one in his mouth. He grimaced as tears wet his face.

I stood close to Rebecca. ‘What happened to the girl in the backpacker hostel?’ I said.

‘She was gonna talk, go to the police,’ Rebecca said. ‘Shaw wasn’t gonna let that happen.’

‘What about Cassandra?’

‘She was set to be taken away, but she’d managed to get free,’ she said.

‘Did you or Sophie help her?’

‘We tried, but things happened too quickly and got out of control,’ she said. ‘She was chased down, but there was an accident. She was out of it on ice. Poor girl thought she could fly like a little bird, but she just fell.’ Rebecca’s eyes filled wet and her throat tightened. ‘So, so Shaw wanted to get rid of her and have her dumped out of town–’

‘At the Falls.’

‘I didn’t know what happened to her after that ’til now.’

Erskine gulped down the rest of the scotch. His face appeared broken.

Rebecca then stood next to Erskine, ‘I don’t know any more than that, I swear,’ she said. ‘I don’t know any more, that’s all I can tell you.’

‘So how long has this been going on – seducing kids with money, drugs, getting them to perform for the camera, let alone being sold for sex?’ I said.

Rebecca looked away, past her framed photograph, toward the window. ‘A while,’ she said breathed. ‘No one suspects anything in rich tourist towns like this, people are blind to everything. A young tourist goes missing, people think they’ve moved on to somewhere else, or, maybe they’ve overdosed. Nothing new. Shaw’s been involved for years, moving from place to place, setting up new businesses and then moving on before people twig.’

246

‘Huh, I figured the apartment complex proposal was just hot air after his website had disintegrated. It’d looked legit alright with designs, contacts, but none of it was, was it?’

Erskine then leaned in, ‘But I saw people sign contracts, hand over cheques,’ he said wide-eyed.

‘I’m sure, and then they fobbed them off with some sob story about how things had been delayed over council red-tape.’

‘Well, that happens!’ Erskine piped.

‘Maybe, but once Rebecca here had figured that I wasn’t going away, things started to unravel. The phony website was already being dismantled. So Rebecca, who was funding all this? Shaw?’

‘He, and others,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who they are, never met them, but I think they were pretty high up. I didn’t want any part of it, but he said he’d get Sophie involved if I didn’t help.’

Rebecca then nursed her drink as Erskine looked away, chewing on his knuckles.

Silence filled the room. I needed to find out where Shaw was in order for the cops to then deal with it all. ‘Tell me, where’s Shaw likely to be?’ I said, moving between them.

Erskine glanced at his Rolex. ‘At this time of day, he might be at Saporitalia.’

‘That’s along the main drag, right?’ I said.

‘Yeah, you know it, do ya?’ said Erskine.

‘Yeah’.

I dug out my phone, stopped recording, and dialled Lane’s number. I urged him to have a couple of uniforms at the ready. He told me he would and hung up.

Then I told them that the police would be there to arrest Shaw. If Rebecca was listening, she didn’t respond.

247

‘Good, Carver. I wanna see that fuckin’ prick go down,’ Erskine growled, heaving himself off the couch.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you, but if you wanna see the cops arrest Shaw, I suggest you get cleaned up, otherwise people’ll think something’s wrong,’ I said.

‘He’s right,’ Rebecca said.

Erskine turned red with rage, shaking a little as his face contorted in pain, mumbling words. I wanted to get out of this hell. I’d done my job and found his little girl. Shaw and Rebecca were the cops’ problem.

Erskine grunted something as Rebecca left the room. He then wandered into the kitchen and splashed his face before returning to the lounge room. ‘Rebecca, what d’ya think will happen to her?’ he mumbled.

‘Hard to say,’ I said. ‘The cops would wanna lay some pretty serious charges. She’d be looking at quite a few years behind bars, even with a full confession.’

‘And Shaw?’

‘Murder perhaps, certainly conspiracy, false imprisonment amongst others. Either way, he’d be going away for a long time. But, with others involved higher up the food chain, things may not even stick with certain connections. This’ll probably just go on. It’s a sick world.’

Erskine then glanced at Sophie. ‘What about her?’ he mumbled.

‘Don’t know, she was coerced into it,’ I said. ‘She could face time, though more likely a couple hundred hours’ community service and just as long on a shrink’s sofa.’

Sophie’s eyes welled up before wiping the wet away.

A moment later, Rebecca returned via the kitchen clutching a purse. Her gait had a slight sway, like the double vodka had hit the spot. ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

Erskine started mumbling again, something incoherent.

‘You right?’ I asked.

He just nodded with a vacant stare toward the door. It didn’t look good. 248

I moved toward the door. ‘Then, we’d better go.’

249

CHAPTER 31

After leaving Erskine’s house, I let Sophie ride with me to see the cops arrest Shaw. Erskine had wanted to see Shaw go down, but the idea of watching the cops cuff Shaw wasn’t my thing. The only thing I could do now was to keep the old man happy. If Erskine was right, Shaw’d be at Saporitalia – the upmarket joint Lauren and I’d visited when she was last here. That seemed like an eternity ago. With any luck Lane would’ve organised for some of the local constabulary to read the prick his rights.

Sophie and I tailed Erskine and Rebecca’s BMW down the hill and into town, before hitting the main drag, and then a set of lights. My head pounded from the blare of car horns and chatter from the radio, wondering if the cops would show. I didn’t wanna be here anymore, but I needed to stay close. Something didn’t feel right with Erskine. He had been too quiet when we’d left; he was just mumbling words with little meaning. Any chance of sunshine had long gone, with cloud darkening the town, and my mood. The traffic lights flicked to green and it started to rain.

Erskine’s car held a steady pace, but my pulse climbed as they sped away and then parked a couple of doors away from the restaurant and its hoi-polloi. I tried to stay on their tail, but there was no car park anywhere near Erskine.

I quickly looked down the street for a patrol car. ‘Christ! WHERE’S THE FUCKING COPS?’

Shit!

I double-parked. The blinker drummed into my head as Sophie asked me what was going to happen with Shaw. I told her I didn’t know.

I dialled Lane’s number.

No reply. I left a message.

Shit! Rebecca and Erskine had stepped out of their car and started to walk to the restaurant.

I called Lane again. He answered. He said some uniforms were on the way. I told him they should already be here. He ignored me and hung up.

250

Sophie eyeballed me with a mixed expression of fear and regret. I tried to ignore her as she shifted the rear-view mirror after a car tore past with the driver giving us the bird.

‘Christ! If Shaw’s there, I’m gonna have to intervene ’til the cops arrive,’ I said.

The blinker was running over time like a clock in my head, doubling the pain already there. I could feel the pressure build behind my eyes. I slammed it off, and scrambled out.

Sophie gave me a worried look, ‘but–’

‘Just stay here, alright!’ I said. ‘Actually, you can park the car across the road. Then, don’t move. Erskine and Rebecca have just walked in.’

I left the car and ran along the footpath trying to dodge pedestrians. Seconds later, I glimpsed the fracas in the cafe’s window, and then opened the doors. Erskine had been roaring like an old lion over its last kill. If Rebecca had sold Larry another line, he’d bought it. Customers, still holding their cups, sprang from their seats, obscuring my view as I tried to make my way past tables and frenzied staff.

Erskine was barking something indecipherable ’til he was mouthing words that fell quiet as Shaw slumped in a chair against a wall. Rebecca was screaming. Her voice tore through the eatery like a banshee.

A group of patrons clamoured around, snapping photos with their phones, like it was some fucking freak show, wanting their own piece of action. The chaotic chatter was punctured with the crash of crockery on the wooden floor.

Erskine’s hand dripped with blood as Shaw’s shaking hands covered his wounds. Rebecca then fell silent with a dazed expression, waiting for reality to kick in. Some staff eased their way through the throng, before attempting to pad Shaw’s leaking body with their starched white napkins. Others tried to sop up the blood from the floor. Erskine then stumbled back into a chair, looking pale.

‘Somebody call an ambulance,’ I called out.

A waitress scrambled to the bar and fumbled to hit triple-O.

251

In front of the window, the town’s thin social veneer had cracked wide open as crowds, with looks of disbelief on their made-up faces, texted frantically. Then Erskine’s red right hand loosened and a thin blade fell to the ground. The bloody knife appeared disfigured and crude against the table’s fine silverware.

I wondered if Rebecca had grabbed a knife from the kitchen, something small, extremely sharp – maybe a paring knife – and snuck it into her purse, before she had joined Erskine, Sophie and I in the lounge room, at the back at the house. Then on the way, she must’ve cajoled the old man to kill Shaw, handing him the knife. And Larry, true to his form, fell for it.

Rebecca stared at me with wild eyes. Behind her, Shaw had spread his hands over his red-stained belly, holding the bloody napkins to little affect. Blood gurgled and spluttered from his mouth, across his cheek and down his throat. Disturbed by the sight, the restaurant staff swiftly backed away.

I leaned in close. Shaw’s pulse was weak, his breath shallow. I was in two minds about helping him, but realised that there was little I could do. Shaw’s hair was plastered to his sweaty brow. His watery eyes blinked toward me before staring blankly at the stationary ceiling fan. I quickly went through his pockets, but just got his keys, wallet and phone.

I felt empty. I wanted something on him to pin the prick to Cassandra, to the dead girl. But I got nothing.

Rain on the window blurred red and blue neon. The cops dispersed the onlookers and anyone else likely to get in their way. One then spoke into his CB requesting backup as they strode in. Rebecca had regained some composure and hunched over Erskine, crying in his ear as distorted thoughts flicked across his eyes, contorting his face. As the cops took charge, one gauged Shaw’s pulse, before turning to her partner and shaking her head. One of the cops left, and then returned with a white plastic sheet from their car, placing it over Shaw’s body, before telling those assembled not to touch anything, as it was now a crime scene. The female cop then asked Rebecca and Erskine if they were alright.

A moment later, an ambulance arrived. The ambos were all over Shaw, before checking Erskine. I hovered near the window. Rain lashed the street, disfiguring

252 everything beyond recognition as the cops’ expressionless voices began questioning witnesses. Through the blur, I noticed Sophie standing in the wet, as gawking drivers slowed traffic to rubberneck for something exciting. But there was nothing exciting in murder. I stepped outside and raised my hand for Sophie to stay where she was, before she slid back in the car.

The ambo that had been with Shaw turned to one of the cops and simply shook his head, confirming what they already knew. Then he and his partner covered Shaw’s bloodied body with a red blanket, placed it on a trolley and wheeled him out to the ambulance. Then one returned and gave Erskine the once over: checking his pulse, eyes, asking if he was on any medication. The old man was mouthing words again, speaking to the cops and the ambo, telling them why he had to kill Eddie Shaw, why he had to do it for his little girl, and all the other girls that’d been abused for profit. But once the ambo deemed him to be alright, Erskine was cuffed and told of his rights. But, the old man kept blabbing like some wound-up toy running on overheated batteries.

The ambulance then left with Shaw’s body, just as another police car arrived. The officers climbed out of their car and were informed by one of the attending uniforms what had happened. They stood taking in the mess in the restaurant. I ignored them.

Rebecca sat next to Erskine, telling him it would be alright, before the female Senior-Constable fired questions at her: ‘Miss, can you tell me what happened? Miss? Were you attacked? Did the deceased attack you? Miss... Miss...’

Rebecca appeared unsure how to answer the questions, but I figured her mind was ticking over, working out a way to make sure the cops were happy, and ensure a way out for herself. Then she started talking, telling the cops that Shaw’d been manipulating her for years and she wanted it to stop, but couldn’t believe her husband would actually kill the man.

‘You fool!’ she snapped at Erskine. His face flustered with a clueless expression. ‘You’ve ruined everything we had,’ she moaned. ‘Now what am I going to do?’

She started crying.

253

‘Eh?’ Erskine murmured with a dopey drawl. But Rebecca’s face was hidden in her hands.

I watched as the cops lapped it up, taking notes, nodding their heads. A sly grin slid across my sweaty face. She was good, certainly worth an Oscar. I felt bad for Erskine as the Constable led him to the patrol car, past the people he knew, and his old life. I wanted to reassure him, but something held me back. Maybe it was because somewhere inside me, I still wanted Rebecca. But he didn’t deserve to fall. He didn’t deserve any of it.

The female cop remained with Rebecca, while two others were still questioning witnesses.

Then I approached one of the uniforms. ‘The name’s Carver,’ I said, showing her my Private Inquiry Agent licence. ‘Where the hell were you? All this could’ve bloody been avoided, you know.’

The Senior Constable ignored my question, eyeballing me over my tone. ‘We’d been informed by Detective Lane from Geelong CIU about your investigation,’ she said, taking notes. ‘But don’t tell me how to do my job or I’ll make sure that you’re unable to do yours. Understand?’

I didn’t want to say yes, but she gave me little choice. I figured she didn’t run in Lane’s circles, but it’d only take a couple of calls for her to have my licence revoked. I couldn’t risk it.

‘I’m sure you know the drill, Carver,’ she said.

My mouth agreed, but my mind thought otherwise. I told her what had happened, and then gave her my details. She said she’d be in contact. I told her I looked forward to it.

She ignored me.

My head was still thumping. The chatter from the confined space was suffocating. I didn’t want to hang around any longer, but then the Senior Constable approached Rebecca. ‘You’ll need to come with us,’ she said.

‘Am I under arrest?’ Rebecca asked, wiping her eyes.

254

‘There are some further questions we would like you to answer madam, at the station.’

I followed them outside and felt the rain on my face as a people huddled in shop doors and watched, muttering words in the wet.

Sophie stood awkwardly as she watched the cop lead Rebecca into the back seat of the police sedan. While in the other patrol car, Erskine sat with his eyes peering back at the street. Then the car motored away as the realisation of what he’d done hit his face.

Rebecca peered at me with curious eyes. Her lips didn’t move, before I found myself saying to her, ‘It’s over.’

She then gave me a smile that made me feel strange, like she had when we first met, before she was ferried away. I stepped back inside the restaurant, but realised there was nothing I could do. The cops had cornered-off the area with tape. Blood splatter remained on the floor, reminding me of what I’d seen in the backpacker hostel, and then at the dive in Anglesea. I walked away.

When I reached the car, Sophie collapsed into my arms. I propped her up and told her not to worry.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked worriedly. ‘Is Rebecca alright?’

I wiped the rain and sweat from my face. I told her that the cops would question Rebecca for a while – see if her story checked out, which, with a duped Erskine in tow, it would. I was still pissed off that the cops were a fucking no-show ’til it was too late.

‘And, then what?’ she queried.

We sat in the car and I started the engine. ‘Well, if her story checks out, then she may not be charged. She could be free.’

I reversed out, motored down Mountjoy Parade. I asked her if she wanted me to take her back to her place, but she just shook her head, so I then drove on towards Larry and Rebecca’s house. A moment later, I looked at Sophie. She sat with her hands under her legs like some little kid.

255

As we drove through the town, I realised Shaw’s death had led me nowhere except to misery. The windscreen blades wiped rain across the windscreen, blurring the town’s emptiness into a vision of twisted faces and tortured minds.

I felt sick.

When we arrived, the house appeared cold and empty in the fading afternoon light as we stepped out of the car and then wandered up to the front door.

Sophie then turned to me. ‘Can’t I stay with you?’ she said.

‘Are you kidding? I live in Geelong. I work. What’re you gonna do, water my plants?’

I didn’t want any part of it. I was done with this town and the people in it. Then she gave me a look I’d seen before, like she was Lauren and Rebecca rolled into one. I couldn’t bring myself to go down that road again. I was done.

I left her at the door. I didn’t look back.

256

CHAPTER 32

About fifteen minutes later, I was back at the motel and dumping my stuff in the car. The rain had stopped but the cloud remained – thick and heavy like a bruised face. A cool breeze breathed past with the aroma of the sea as I walked over to the reception. A woman behind the counter smiled as I approached and gave her my key. She was the same woman I’d encountered before. I told her that I was leaving and wouldn’t be back. She asked me if I’d enjoyed my stay. I said the motel was fine, but the town had seen better days. Her face twitched with some confusion, before a smile lit-up her dial as she glanced past me at the arrival of new guests, and their luggage. I wasn’t surprised.

The dark and wet road bled before me as I motored out of town, along the serpentine Great Ocean Road back to Geelong, and hopefully an easy case. Another cheating spouse, an insurance job – something normal would be good for a change. I didn’t want to think about what lay behind me – a cesspool of filth. I didn’t want to recognise it, yet I did. The rear-view mirror held in its glare a soulless blur ’til I turned a bend and it was gone. But the image remained in my head. The car in front, something sporty, sleek, and just big enough for two, appeared to be headed in the same direction, back to the city. It hugged the tight turns and bends with ease, like an extension of the driver. I kept a distance, but wished it was me behind its wheel, leading another life.

I drove on, peering blearily at the road ahead as white lines bled into saturated bitumen. Road signs sped past me as the rain became heavier. I turned the wipers up a notch; it didn’t help. The rain sounded like hammers hitting a thousand nails at once. I couldn’t hear anything. I wiped the windscreen, but it kept fogging up. The rear-view mirror just offered blackness.

I tried to keep my eyes ahead, but a car showed up behind. Then I got a sudden feeling I was being followed. My grip on the wheel tightened as I peered through the diminishing window of clarity. Then I swept around a bend, and suddenly saw her there on the road in a white slip, drenched, her arms open wide, but who? Lauren? Cassandra? She appeared like a combination of desire and emptiness. Then she was gone. The car behind overtook me and blared its horn.

257

I wiped the windscreen for a better look, but got nothing – just road, and realised it was just a vision – a haunted daydream, now gone. Then I switched on the radio for a sense of reality.

Eventually, I made it back to my flat. The neighbours were home, revealed by a dim light through their blinds and the flicker of a TV. The laughter sounded as hollow as the walls. I had less than a week to let the agent know my intentions – to stay and pay more rent for a gentrified flat, or move. I’d been through enough. I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do. When I opened my door, I felt like the last person to arrive at a funeral. My feet led me past the bathroom to my bedroom, dumping my bag on the bed. The cat stalked in and started meowing, and then brushed up against my leg. I grunted at it and then I wandered into the laundry, gave it some food and fresh water, and then escaped into the kitchen. For some reason, I half expected someone to be home, but there was no one. The aroma of Lauren’s perfume lingered on my clothes.

Nothing had been disturbed, even the half-empty cup of coffee on the bench remained half-empty. The place smelt musty, filtered by stale coffee and dirt-dry tobacco. I found some aspirin, stuck my head under the tap and guzzled, and then shuffled back to the bedroom.

A moment later, I flicked Janice a text that I was back and that I’d see her tomorrow. Then I showered and went to bed.

The next morning, I scooped out the SIM card from the sugar bowl and slipped it into my pocket. Breakfast was coffee and toast. The cat had woken, and then went back to sleep when I left. I wanted to get into the office early, before traffic congestion and its drudgery. It felt like I’d been away for a month, let alone a few days, but I was happy to be back from what seemed like Dante’s vision of hell. Yesterday’s blackness had disappeared, but I knew its nightmares would linger.

When I arrived outside the office building, the back street reeked of empty, broken beer bottles. It felt good to be back. The front doors were unlocked due to the tenants in the other offices. The old lift was out of order, again, and so I climbed the stairs, before slipping the key from my pocket and opening the door. The lock cracked as I turned the key. Then I realised it’d been fixed after the break-in. They’d done a good job. My watch read a little after eight.

258

The place had been tidied-up; Janice must’ve applied that woman’s touch she’d mentioned she would give the joint – shelves dusted, desks cleaned, and the wooden floors mopped. Even the old rug appeared new, with colours I didn’t remember seeing before –sapphire, ultramarine. There was even a vase of white lilies. I figured that a jar of hydrangeas on my desk would be a step too far. I sat in my chair, prized the SIM card from my pocket, placed it in the desk drawer, and then downloaded the pictures I’d taken on my phone and printed them off. Through the venetians, vehicles choked- up the streets like a chunk of fat in an artery. They could keep it. I checked my mobile. I didn’t know if Janice had received the text that I’d sent her last night.

A short time later, Janice strolled in. I gave her a rousing smile as she strode into my office. She’d coloured her hair again – flaming yellow. I guess that was the new look from the fashions mags she’d read. She held a copy of today’s Geelong Advertiser.

‘So, do you like it? I thought I’d try something new,’ she said, fluffing at her hair with her hand.

‘Uh-huh,’ I murmured with a fading smile.

Janice then spread the newspaper across my desk. ‘You should see this!’ she said, with restrained excitement.

‘I’m good, how are you?’ I smirked. ‘Thanks for taking care of the cat, by the way. Did you get my text? What happened to the welcome back drink?’

She ignored me. ‘Oh, she’s a lovely pussycat,’ Janice smiled. ‘Do you want to keep her?’

I didn’t know if I could answer her question.

‘Anyway, just take a look at this,’ she said, flicking the page. ‘We’ll have a drink later.’

There it was, the headline slapped across page 1: Erskine girl found alive, with a photo of Cassandra before she went missing. The image sat below the headline like an English page 3 girl. I wiped my mouth. The story read that Cassandra Erskine, 17, of Lorne, had been found naked at the nearby Erskine Falls. It stated that a local woman, known to the missing girl, and a Geelong-based private investigator 259 hired by Miss Erskine’s family, had found the girl lying injured amongst rocks. My mouth felt dry.

I turned the page. Page 3 was littered with photos of Erskine. The story said the girl’s father, Lawrence Erskine, then allegedly attacked local businessman, Eddie Shaw, accusing him of being involved in her disappearance. Police said the man died at the scene. It then went on to say how Erskine’s now estranged younger second wife, Rebecca, had pleaded with her husband not to hurt Mr Shaw, despite also being a victim of his alleged abuse. Later, it stated that after being questioned by police, Rebecca had been released without charge. Erskine, however, was being held in custody and was due to appear in an out of sessions hearing at the Geelong Magistrates’ Court sometime next week. Above the photos, the headline glared like a spotlight in a darkroom: Erskine Falls: the end of an era. Then there was a double-page spread on pages 4 and 5 – salacious, gossip mongering pieces for a curious readership about Erskine – the well-known realtor, and Rebecca – the victim of controlling men. The articles quoted her and a number of unnamed sources from Lorne’s social elite. It read like a fucking soap opera. The last paragraph mentioned that Rebecca had wanted to get on with her life and make a fresh start in a new town. I’m sure she would.

Janice was kept satisfied, perched on the edge of my desk, as I read. By the time I’d finished, my mouth tasted of lead. I did a quick Google for Richard Braithwaite, wondering if there’d been anything about the incident at his Lorne holiday house. Nothing. I figured it was kept quiet. The phone on Janice’s desk rang and she left to answer it. I just wanted to forget about the whole thing. But I still wanted to find out how Cassandra was doing since she’d been taken to hospital.

I dialled Anne’s number. She answered with a murmur, like a ghost chasing shadows. I asked how she was, and how Cassandra was doing. Her tone didn’t give me much hope.

‘When she arrived at the hospital, they put her into an induced coma,’ Anne said, sniffling into the receiver. ‘I, I don’t know... the doctors seem to believe that due to the nature of her injuries she’s likely to have brain damage.’

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I wanted to speak, to say something meaningful, even useful, but found my fist stuck in my mouth. With Erskine duped by Rebecca, and now Cassandra not looking so good, everything had turned a darker shade of black.

‘They can’t know that for sure, not yet,’ I said reassuringly. ‘There’s still hope, Anne.’ My words sounded hollow even before I’d spoke. I felt useless.

‘There’s no hope,’ she said. ‘I’ll never have her back now. Cassandra will never be the same again. She’ll be lost to me forever.’

Anne sobbed a little, then apologised. I was in two minds to ask if she’d seen the newspaper, but said nothing. She thanked me for finding her daughter, and then hung up.

If I needed a drink, it was now.

The newspaper remained on my desk. I tried to ignore the words and photographs for as long as I could before I found myself throwing it at the shadows on the wall. I needed to get out. I rolled a cigarette, wandered up to Janice’s desk and asked her if she wanted anything while I took a walk. She covered the receiver with her hand and said she’d hoped for a coffee. I gave her wink and told I’d be back in twenty. Once outside, I burnt the end of my smoke and thought about Rebecca. I had to hand it to her, she’d managed to stay ahead of the game; she’d done so with Cassandra, Shaw, Erskine, and now the cops. She was a real player, manipulating everyone around her, including me. She could rebuild her life, move on, and who knows maybe do it all over again somewhere with a new name, and a new sucker to love her.

When I returned, I handed Janice her coffee, before she gestured toward my office.

‘Who?’ I asked, as I sipped my coffee.

‘Guess!’ she said.

‘Huh, now he shows up, typical.’

As I moved toward my office door, two pairs of heavy feet paced about like enemies at a funeral making sure you were dead.

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‘Gents,’ I said, strolling in and gesturing for them to take a seat before I reclined in mine.

‘We’re not staying, Carver,’ said Chase. ‘Just give us that SIM card and the photos from your phone, and we’ll be gone.’

‘Where the hell were the fucking uniforms you said–’

‘Look, enough bullshit Carver, I’ve got the fucking brass breathing down my neck about all this,’ Lane growled. ‘Just give me the bloody SIM or I’ll have you charged with obstruction, before we dismantle the place and find it ourselves.’

‘Huh, just after Janice had cleaned up the joint – you come along and want to destroy it: well, welcome to my life.’

Lane shifted closer. ‘Frank, you’re lucky it’s us,’ he said, calmly.

Janice hovered at the door like a ghost, her face twitching from hurt to cynical.

I dragged open the drawer, grabbed the SIM card and photos and slammed them on the desk. ‘Satisfied? Now, get the hell out,’ I barked.

Lane slid the SIM and pictures from the desk and walked toward the door, followed by Chase. Janice quickly shimmied out of their way. Then Lane turned around. ‘Just doing my job, Frank,’ he said, slowly.

‘Keep walking officers, and close the door behind you.’ Pricks.

Lane’s departure left me empty and I wondered if I could still rely on him.

After the dust had settled, I strode up to Janice’s desk, planted a kiss on her cheek and told her to hold my calls.

‘Where are you going?’ she said.

I just shrugged my shoulders, and then gave her a slow smile.

She gave me a wink. ‘See you tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

About fifteen minutes later, I arrived back home and found the cat was asleep on my bed. I wandered around a little and rolled a cigarette. The tobacco bristled

262 bright, aflame from the Zippo. A moment later, I rang the real estate agent and I told him I’d stay. Pricks. I’d have to cop the extra rent; I didn’t have a choice. Hopefully business would pick up, otherwise I could find myself out on my ear. I expected it would – Geelong was that sort of place. The details of the crimes may change but people and their damaged lives never did.

An hour or so later, I slid a record from the shelf – Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, placed it on the turntable, and then fixed myself a long drink. I felt the alcohol burn into my stomach, and then blur synapses in my brain. The LP crackled and hummed under the stylus, before the first tune, So What played.

Memories, and their whispers, began to fade as the music consumed the room and remnants of the past. But I was still lost amongst the living.

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Exegesis

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Introduction

Crime fiction is celebrated for critiquing social and political change (Horsley, 2009, pp. 12-13; Turnbull, 1999, p. 59). In times of uncertainty, readers and writers often seek reassurance from stories and characters that help us make sense of a changing world. Exemplars of this are the hardboiled and noir fiction writers of the 1930s and 1940s who created male heroes seeking clarity after the trauma and displacement following the great social and economic upheavals of war.

Growing up amidst the economic downturn in the regional city of Geelong, I too dealt with these uncertainties by reading crime fiction. The ability of crime fiction to articulate social criticism and interpret change resonated with me as I watched my city’s tumultuous shift from manufacturing to tourism.

I wrote Erskine Falls, a contemporaneously-set novel that follows Geelong- based private eye Frank Carver’s investigation of a missing girl from Lorne, Victoria, to utilise the upheavals and places that I was familiar with, specifically post-industrial Geelong – Victoria’s second city. I also located the work there to demonstrate that the city and the nearby Surf Coast offer so much more potential as an economic and cultural hub than is realised. A further reason to set my narrative here was that few writers have used this area as the heart of their story, especially in relation to the tourist trade that Lorne and the Surf Coast attract.

During the course of producing the novel and exegesis, I was confronted with some key challenges in the creative process. These included how to present a better understanding of masculinity in crisis; the degree to which my story might sit in between sub-genres of crime fiction; how to represent the masculinities of my character against a post-industrial landscape; how this struggle with masculinity and movement between sub-genres may influence voice in the novel; and how all these elements might interact with the idea of place. These became issues that drove my exegesis.

In Chapter 1: Genre, I discuss the generic identity, use of conventions, and how my novel and protagonist slide between hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction subgenres. In Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I analyse genre conventions in terms of how they engage with masculinity. This chapter establishes 265 masculinity as the central framework of the exegesis and key thematic interest of the novel, with a concern for how best to represent the protagonist’s sense of masculine identity in his post-industrial world; and how the traditional masculinity of the private eye is affected by domestic spaces. Thirdly, in Chapter 3: Voice, I discuss tactics for the creation of the protagonist’s voice, including how the use of hardboiled and noir tropes influenced his language, diction and expression. Finally, in Chapter 4: Place, I examine how place impacts the narrative through choice of locations and settings, how these sites affect the type of investigative case that he embarks upon, and how concepts of space and place are explored in the text. While these elements inevitably entwined throughout my writing process, masculinity forms the methodology and thematic interest of the work.

The artefact/exegesis model offers a critical/creative balance that a traditional thesis does not. This negotiation between scholarship of critical and creative texts concerning the hardboiled detective and noir subgenres of crime fiction, and the lucid illumination and praxis of creativity has let me create crime fiction that examines masculinity within the post-industrial landscape of a regional city and contribute to the scholarship in this area. To best support this process, I applied a practice-led research methodology to create the novel. This application is articulated and explored through the exegesis. This process, as scholar Jen Webb (2008) describes, positions the writer to: research for practice, so gathering and producing information needed to get the writing of the artefact underway and to generate knowledge about the content and context of the creative project; research into practice, thus acquiring knowledge concerning approaches, techniques and reflexivity around and for the act of writing; and, research through practice, thereby applying and reflecting on creative methods, together with traditional methodologies to develop knowledge about social, cultural, or other issues.

Adopting this method enabled me to construct, then deconstruct, and then (re)construct material, providing a circular process through which both the critical and creative shape and enhance the other. Through this application of practice-led research, I discovered that the methodology allowed the artefact to drive the research (Arnold, 2012). Each creative problem encountered required me to engage in research into how other practitioners resolved their own creative challenge, and how applying theory may resolve it. This created a dialogue between the artefact and exegesis through which 266 research functioned as a third element that triangulates the two together. Applying this methodology let me explore themes and devices in the novel, such as critic Laura Mulvey’s (1975) concept of the gaze and how the protagonist and characters, for example Rebecca (and potentially the reader), hold a form of power from watching others. It also built a repository of key critical and theoretical materials that can act as subtext or help develop motivations and rationales in the story.

While I am interested in other genres, including speculative, melodrama and the thriller, I felt crime fiction, particularly the hardboiled detective and noir fiction subgenres, was best positioned to capture the themes (such as loss, guilt, anxiety and loneliness) that I sought to portray in the novel. This brings me to the first of my four chapters, Chapter 1: Genre. Crime fiction, particularly the hardboiled variety, emphasises the injustices and inequities of a society (Scaggs, 2005, p. 63). So, as a writer, the crime fiction genre offered me a lens through which to view an underdeveloped site of such fiction within an Australian landscape – the Victorian regional city of Geelong and the nearby Surf Coast, with particular emphasis on the coastal town of Lorne. This gave me an opportunity to illustrate how crime(s) and their investigation in post-industrial locations such as Geelong and Lorne could affect the masculine subjectivity of their inhabitants.

This brings me to a conundrum which drives much of my thinking about the novel: to what extent can the mood of the novel slide from a traditional hardboiled detective fiction to a noir fiction? To articulate this change, I examine why I sought to create a hardboiled PI protagonist who retains the first-person narrator style of tough, cynical language (Christianson, 1989, p. 156), yet evolves to capture and utilise many noir fiction tropes such as suspense, alienation and guilt (Horsley, 2009, p. 8). I initially wanted my protagonist Carver to observe his world through a cynical lens, but this offered little retrospection and lacked any sense of real character. By giving Carver an overly cynical voice, he seemed aloof and distant from other characters. Applying an emotive sensibility allowed me to give him depth and space to negotiate the tumultuousness of relationships and his investigation. In lieu of this literary and aesthetic shift, Carver oscillates along a spectrum between a hardboiled detective and a noir investigator. This blurring of these motifs is further discussed in the next chapter, on masculinity.

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As both the exegesis and novel progressed, I began to consider how Carver could be constructed as a near middle-aged man with realistic sensitivities rather than merely being an abstract character. In Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I explore how the relationship between masculinity and place and the protagonist’s subjectivity could be developed in the anxiety of a post-industrial noir world, and how this shapes his identity. In developing this subjectivity, I was influenced by tropes in hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction as demonstrated by works from writers such as James M. Cain, David Goodis, Henning Mankell and Zane Lovitt. These writers created characters that were flawed, yet also vulnerable to the world around them. Additionally, Carver’s development was also informed by scholarly material that examines issues such as masculinity, violence, voyeurism and guilt, with work by theorists such as Michael Kimmel (2008), Robert Connell (2005), Laura Mulvey (1975) and Winfried Fluck (2001).

I wanted Carver to display traits common within noir, but that are also Australian through exemplifying an egalitarian, hardiness, and anti-authoritarian spirit (Hogan, 2008, p. 19). I discovered that by applying Connell’s theories explicated in his work Masculinities (2005) concerning the social construction of masculinity, I could follow a theoretical framework which contributed to the thickening of the character and theme of the novel. Connell’s theories on masculinity led me to construct a character that was not confined to a normative masculinity, often exemplified in other genres such as Westerns and thrillers, but assembled from a plethora of less defined masculinities. This enabled me to build a protagonist of complexity and emotional quality.

Connell’s (2005) definition of masculinity contends that: “[m]asculinity (...) is simultaneously a place in gender relations, the practices through which men and women engage that place in gender, and the effects of these practices in bodily experience, personality and culture” (p. 71). To pursue this concept, I began to interrogate Carver’s character as a male private eye. This led me to build a protagonist that did not just express a tough or heroic masculinity, but rather one that was more tentative in its assertion. Key to this was to look at how Carver’s sense of masculinity could be articulated through gender relations and practices; and how particular sites, such as domestic spaces, allow his subjectivity to be problematised.

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In order to communicate these masculinities through the use of an authentic voice, I experimented with vernacular and diction. In Chapter 3: Voice, I discuss how this proved both an engaging and challenging process as it required me to not only evaluate the protagonist I sought to create, but also my own style and technique. Developing this voice required establishing an authenticity in both the characters I had created in the novel, and in my writing. This development was assisted in reading a wide variety of material from Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939) to Midnight Promise (2013) by Zane Lovitt, after which, I felt that my use of vernacular, colloquialisms and similes had confidently developed, and that my protagonist Frank Carver’s language attained a degree of originality and power. However, it was after my reading of James Ellroy’s White Jazz (1993) that Carver’s voice, as the first-person narrator, assumed a harder, more street-wise tone. Despite attaining this hardboiled, cynical voice, I still needed my protagonist to be able to express the uncertainty and sensitivities of his noir world.

Attempting to convey Carver’s noir world required me to look beyond the character to the place where he lives and the spaces he works. Thus, lastly in Chapter 4: Place, I focus on the notions of place, space and home. Here, I aimed to investigate how these concepts are explored in an Australian context with primarily the setting of the small, coastal town of Lorne and its bourgeois cultural milieu, and secondarily the nearby post-industrial regional city of Geelong. Setting the narrative in these two locations gave me the opportunity to examine not only how Carver, as the narrating protagonist, negotiates these spaces, but how he, and the others characters, are formed by these sites. I was also particularly interested in how crime(s) reflect the social milieu, notably of Lorne, and how exploring this process of crime/place evolution enabled me to create a sense of verisimilitude around such spaces during Carver’s investigation.

Before pursuing this, I needed to examine how and why crime fiction provides a sense of verisimilitude. Critics such as Genie Giaimo (2010), Isabel Santaulària (2007), and John Scaggs (2005) have noted that crime fiction provides a form of social criticism. This, I discovered, is usually articulated through the investigating detective who is marginalised in some way, and thus is in a position to “observe society and its institutions from a distance” (Santaulària, 2007, p. 58). This observation is emphasised

269 often in hardboiled detective fiction, particularly through the lens of the narrating protagonist.

In endeavouring to present a sense of verisimilitude, I needed to examine the dichotomy and conflation of Geelong and Lorne. In doing so, I sought to investigate the topography of Geelong as a post-industrial regional city and how this changing socio-cultural and economic landscape affects Carver as the protagonist. Here, I found geographer John Wiley’s (2007) concept of landscape beneficial as it describes a mutual embeddedness between the individual and the environment [with]in which they interact. This notion then allowed me to use voice and subject position to create Carver as a reflection of the changing city which he inhabits. Thus, while I was influenced by Baudelaire’s concept of the flâneur (Barker, 2000, p. 135) as a curious wandering observer, I felt it necessary for Carver to reflect and articulate the changes he sees in Geelong as it emerges from an industrial and manufacturing hub to a ‘gentrifying’ city. Therefore, as Geelong recreates itself through service industries such as retail and hospitality so too must Carver become an active participant of this transition. Consequently, Carver is a man caught between the past and the present which he is required to negotiate in the course of his investigation, and in his relationships. This theme is similarly explored in other contemporary hardboiled detective novels such as Peter Corris’ Saving Billie (2005) and noir crime fiction such as Atom Smasher (2011) by Lila Shaara, in which its protagonists, and other characters, describe a sense of disillusionment and alienation about their changing world.

Writing both the novel and exegesis provided challenges and opportunities in creating a new work. In developing the protagonist, I have sought to create a character who could become both recognisable and sustainable. By using a methodology of practice-led research, I have made significant advances in my writing, both creatively and critically.

Thus, I feel I have produced an original contribution to knowledge in how an analysis of masculinity in the post-industrial landscape of a regional city can be examined in crime fiction. I also aim to offer the novel to prospective publishers, with the intention of developing a small series featuring my protagonist, Frank Carver, PI.

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Chapter 1: Genre

In this chapter, I examine why I chose to create a novel within the hardboiled detective and noir fiction subgenres, and how considerations of genre shaped my creative research process. I evaluate how crime fiction’s use of setting and social conditions offers critiques of society (Knight, 1980; Plain, 2008; Scaggs, 2009) and how this tendency in crime fiction allowed me an opportunity to illustrate how crime and its investigation could affect an individual and reveal the processes of corruption as typical in times of rapid social and economic change. Whilst other genres, such as melodrama and speculative fiction, could also be used to illustrate these themes, I felt that crime fiction’s hardboiled detective and noir fiction subgenres with their emphasis on loss, anxiety and isolation, best articulated the conflicts a modern-day male protagonist might encounter, especially in relation to masculinity and connectivity in relationships.

Why a private eye?

My first considerations around what genre would work best for a story set against the social change of Geelong centred on the nature of the protagonist. In my initial planning for the novel, I had imagined my protagonist Carver to be similar in personality to the traditional heroic hardboiled private detective whose traits include tough, cynical language (Christianson, 1989, p. 156) and violence. In order to evaluate how to build such a character within this genre and within the social changes of Geelong, I needed to research how the genre and its typical hardboiled hero has evolved across time. The rise of the hardboiled detective, “came with the increasing corruption of American society, shown in the power of gangsters and their acceptance by many who were socially respectable, the collapse of any accepted moral code” (Symons, 1972, p. 135). It is within this blurring of moral, legal, and social order that the private eye moves and works. The private eye “operates as a mediator between the criminal underworld and the world of the respectable society; he can move freely between these two worlds, without really being part of either” (Krutnik, 1991, p. 39). In the world of Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade, Zane Lovitt’s contemporary Melbourne-based John Dorn and James Sallis’ Lew Griffin, the detective’s 271 independence is characterised in terms of his professionalism, whereas Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald, James Lee Burke, and Australia’s Peter Corris add to this a sense that their detectives – Philip Marlowe, Lew Archer, Dave Robicheaux (though a police detective), and Cliff Hardy, respectively, have a more stable moral centre from whose perspective the reader can view the various forms of corruption uncovered through the investigation.

In examining variations of the ‘Australian’ private eye, I noticed for instance that Peter Corris’s traditional PI Cliff Hardy provides a hardboiled narrative but without the noir mood and aesthetic. In comparison, Zane Lovitt’s John Dorn, in The Midnight Promise (2012), is less hardboiled though inhabits a noir world. These differences may reflect the differences in popular perception about the two cities, with Hardy residing in a Sydney that is depicted as highly corrupt while Dorn’s investigations are throughout Melbourne and extol a weary, pessimistic world that reflects the less commercially driven southern city. Also, like similar investigators such as Spade, Hardy, Marlowe, Archer and Griffin, I felt that Carver should work from an office, allowing him to meet clients and provide a space of retreat, unlike others such as Jack Irish in Peter Temple’s Black Tide (2004), and Lenny Bartulin’s protagonist Jack Susko in A Deadly Business (2008) who practice in unrelated spaces that are also used for other purposes. However, like Spade, Carver’s practice is essentially run by his secretary, Janice. These facets are detailed in Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, and Chapter 4: Place, where I discuss how I sought to shape Carver’s subject position and sense of masculinity through use of spaces, and how I attempted to create a coherent verisimilitude through the use of place and aesthetics, respectively.

As my writing of the novel developed, I realised that the completely hardboiled protagonist felt to be a type of flat characterisation in comparison to the modern detectives who seemed to feature more of a noir sensibility, specifically through recurring emotions of anxiety and guilt. I decided that what would work better was a character who possessed a set of flaws that were a mix of the nuanced quality of noir with the more overt qualities of hardboiled that still situated him clearly in the tradition of crime fiction protagonists yet reflected the psychological dilemmas of his contemporary world. In order to achieve this, I started with an examination of the character traits of well-known filmed and literary private eyes and the secondary 272 academic literature that interrogates these in order to evaluate where the boundaries between noir and hardboiled might reside. In examining the private eye, critic Martin Rubin (1999) notes that many critics actually place the hardboiled detective films such as Huston’s adaptation of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon (1941) and Howard Hawks’ The Big Sleep (1946) within the hazy borders of noir (p. 92). He states:

a possible basis for differentiating between the hardboiled detective and purer forms of film noir – drawn more in terms of a continuous spectrum than a clearly marked dividing line – might focus on the relative degree of control exercised by the detective hero (pp. 92-93).

Similarly, scholar Eric Rawson (2009) describes how hardboiled detective fiction contributes to the construction of the mythic hero through the notion of “the incomplete ego” (p. 295); in that, because the hardboiled PI can never really know himself, he can only identify the limits of his being through the differences between his and those of the criminal other, thus his is a “psyche that can never be healed” (p. 295). This idea fascinated me as I did not want my novel’s protagonist Carver to be a one-dimensional character that rights societal wrongs, solves the case, and restores order.

So, in drawing from Rawson’s perspective, I discovered that if I could push Carver into uncomfortable spaces, such as the domestic spheres found in noir crime fiction, I could lead him toward expressing a greater range of anxieties. This then led me to examine how Carver’s subject position could be affected by domestic spaces, and how other settings, in the course of his investigation, may assist to reflect his ambiguous sense of morality.

The morality of the protagonist

The degree to which the hero needs to act in a moral way also became a concern, so I undertook an investigation into the morality found in other crime fiction protagonists like Marlowe, Hardy, Archer and Robicheaux. What was of most interest to me were the more morally ambiguous detectives such as Dorn, Spade and Griffin. Modelling on these characters, I aimed to portray Carver as a morally weaker character (as demonstrated by his affair with his deceased colleague’s wife, Lauren; and, his erotic arousal of watching ‘Candy’ perform on camera), than other similar investigator

273 protagonists such as Marlowe, Hardy, Archer and Robicheaux. This, I felt, gave the character a degree of ambiguity, allowing him to peer into the darkness of his own and other characters’ lives.

In developing the novel, I was not interested in creating a classical detective or sleuth whose manner and use of deduction appears aloof and detached to those around him; who, in essence, is not part of the action, and who is not willing to put his life on the line to solve the case. Instead, I looked to create a protagonist willing to investigate through a mode of action whereby the mystery element is displaced in favour of suspense. This type of leading character, I discovered, is often involved in “[g]unplay, illicit or exotic sexuality” (Krutnik, 1991, p. 39), pungent language (Symons, 1972, p. 134) and situations where “the corruption of the social forces of law, and personal danger to the hero are placed to the fore” (Krutnik, 1991, p. 39). Indeed, the private eye does not inhabit the same world as the classical detective, who moves instinctively, yet is fallible (Symons, 1972, p. 135).

As my writing progressed, this motif allowed me to create a lead character that could provide both a physicality and a psychological quality to his investigation. Literary scholar Carl Malmgren (2001) notes that “[t]his kind of chaotic world does not lend itself to the rational inquiry that characterises mystery fiction; in detective fiction, the investigator’s best methodological tool is not the cool deduction but the hot ‘hunch’” (p. 72). Therefore, I experimented with differed ways in which Carver could articulate a “hot hunch” (Malmgren, 2001, p. 72) in his investigation. For example, I initially considered that upon receiving information Carver would pursue crooked property developer Eddie Shaw. However, upon critical reflection I began to reconsider this direction, allowing Carver to investigate other leads concerning Cassandra’s disappearance, such as the adult entertainment industry, before initiating another course towards femme fatale Rebecca and then Eddie Shaw.

Similarly, in my research, I discovered that during the course of a PI’s investigation other more heinous crimes are often committed. Critic Dennis Porter (1981) notes, “the form taken by the hardboiled detective novel suggests the metaphor of the spreading stain,” insofar as the “initial crime often turns out to be a relatively superficial symptom of an evil whose magnitude and ubiquity are only progressively disclosed during the course of the investigation” (p. 40). I experimented with applying

274 this sentiment to Erskine Falls. Although Cassandra is deemed missing, which is not in itself a crime, the course of the investigation reveals that she has been dumped, and left to die, by persons known to her who had sought to profit from her as a part of a criminal organisation involved in systemic corruption.

In developing Frank Carver PI, I began to realise that he is more than just a hardboiled private eye. Through using the iterative loop of practice-led research, I have sought to provide greater depth to the character by applying noir tropes and allowing him to display a psychological or emotional interior to his cynical, streetwise exterior.

Several critical texts on crime fiction examine the nature of the violence and criminality that flow between the noir and hardboiled subgenres. Christopher Orr (1997) observes that “what (film) noir texts appear to have in common is that they are marked by the eruption of physical violence or, more precisely, the discourse of law and criminality” (p. 22). To extrapolate, in noir fiction, the investigating protagonist is arguably as guilty as any other character in pursuit of the criminal or those engaged in criminal activity. Writer Julian Symons (1972) follows this discourse of criminality in crime fiction, noting the work of Hammett, Patricia Highsmith, James Hadley Chase, James M. Cain, and Jim Thompson, who portray the hero protagonist as a criminal, “or [someone who] pretends to be a criminal, or behaves like a criminal” (p. 15). This can be seen in Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon (1930), in which the PI Spade bends the law to suit himself during the course of his investigation into the location and retrieval of the falcon. Similarly, in James Lee Burke’s The Neon Rain (1987), protagonist Detective Robicheaux inflicts violence to obtain information about a murder; and in Olivier Pauvert’s Noir (2007) the ghostly protagonist defies the law to ascertain truths to a series of deaths, including his own. This notion of criminality was fascinating, as I felt it allowed me flexibility in the writing process to push the protagonist into bending moral conventions. In considering this, I investigated ways in which this form of criminality could be achieved. Through exploring a number of techniques, I arrived at a means by which Carver could evade the law to progress with his investigation. This is illustrated when Carver investigates the death of a girl in a backpacker hostel in Lorne:

I slipped the penknife from my pocket, sliced the police tape, and then grabbed my tools from inside my coat and picked the lock. About a minute later, the lock gave a

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cracking noise; I turned the handle and slowly entered the dark room. I knew the penalty for break and enter, let alone disturbing a crime scene. I didn’t care (Mallon, p. 76).

This passage attempts to demonstrate Carver’s ambivalent attitude towards the legality of his actions, and articulates criminality as a means to obtain evidence in his investigation; and illustrates that as a private eye, he is at an oblique angle to authority.

Heather Worthington (2001) notes that whether it is a hardboiled or noir portrayal of crime, the law defines order from disorder and subsequently enacts a ‘suitable’ punishment for the committed crime (p. 53). Similarly, Porter (1981) contends that crime often happens in a community, thus violating a community code of conduct and demanding a response concerning the violated code (p. 120). The law itself is essential to the development of crime fiction; that is, it is the law that constructs, or at least classifies, what is criminal.

Crime fiction draws on the narrative structures and process of the law in its own construction, with its drive to ascertain the facts of the case and reach a firm resolution, to create a convincing argument that reaches the right conclusion and apportions guilt correctly (Worthington, 2011, p. 53).

In crafting the novel, I realised that developing Carver’s ambivalence towards the law for the purposes of his investigation would allow me to focus his feelings of guilt towards those around him, namely Janice, Lauren, and Bowman. This element of guilt, as discussed in Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, positions him not only as a hardboiled detective, but also as a noir investigator.

Negotiating the Crime Fiction spectrum

The concept of a spectrum within crime fiction, as Martin Rubin (1999, pp. 92-93) eludes, particularly concerning both the hardboiled and noir sub-genres, offered me an opportunity to negotiate how I could weave this idea through the novel, though essentially within the subject position of the protagonist. This spectrum led me to consider the role and nature of the hardboiled detective and that of noir investigator, and in doing so, to examine ways in which I could draw from both traditions to help develop Carver.

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According to critic John Scaggs (2005), what defines the subgenre of the hardboiled detective is the centrality of the private investigator to the narrative; a client, and the investigator’s general mistrust of the client (p. 58). Scaggs also identifies the use of an urban setting, a femme fatale, police corruption, often a first- person narrative, and, the use of vernacular language (p. 58). When attempting to apply these conventions in my writing, I began to chart and draw influences from several crime novels, particularly traditional detective stories such as The Maltese Falcon (1930) and The Big Sleep (1939) through their use of characterisation, narrative, language and diction, and plot.

However, as Hammett’s Spade and Chandler’s Marlowe’s characterisations could be seen as some of the first distinctively hardboiled heroes, they offered only peripheral insights into how to move my representation towards being a noir hero (Porfirio, 1996, p. 84) who is a flawed man who endeavours to right societal wrongs but ultimately fails. So as my reading expanded to include writers such as Howard Browne, David Goodis, James M. Cain, Dorothy B. Hughes, and contemporary authors such as Henning Mankell and Zane Lovitt, these novelists articulated a bleaker world inhabited by vulnerable protagonists gripped by existential fears. This style of writing not only inspired me to create the characters that inhabit the post-industrial world of Erskine Falls, but opened a window to the subgenre of noir crime fiction. The work of these writers offered overt themes that I found appealing such as anxiety, loss and alienation.

In applying these to my writing, the hardboiled detective narrative became darker with each draft. For instance, and as further articulated in Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I initially felt Carver was too distant in his feelings towards his deceased PI partner, Lyle Bowman. However, when I began recognising noir tropes such as anxiety and guilt in my reading of other texts, I increased the intensity and frequency of Carver’s feelings of grief for Bowman’s death in order to achieve a similar sense of emotional disorientation. For example: “Leaning against the wall, I let the lukewarm water wash away the misery and hurt for Bowman’s death that gripped me like a wrench, turning my stomach in knots” (Mallon, p. 5). Here, I attempted to provide an emotive expression to articulate Carver’s ongoing pain over his colleague’s death and how a sense of guilt gnaws at him throughout the novel. 277

Through a practice-led research methodology, I began to critically reflect on how I wanted the private eye protagonist, and other characters, to look, and why. As this exegetical process started to form and shape the artefact, I continued to read more works by key crime writers who have created protagonists regarded as strong or ground breaking, such as Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky, Marele Day, Lenny Bartulin, and Peter Corris. I also drew on the characters birthed by James Ellroy and Ken Bruen for their use of violence to deal with a world that is broken and unjust. These writers’ narratives provided colour and dimension to their protagonists and became influential in creating my protagonist and his world, when creating elements such as dialogue and verisimilitude, and providing a physical presence on the page.

In the process of drafting these changes, I felt the mood of the novel had shifted. This change, I realised, began to manifest from the circular practice-led research methodology that started to affect how I sought to portray my protagonist and articulate a sense of his world through his investigation and interaction with other characters. Through this process I recognised how crime fiction writers were able to build and sustain mood and tension within their narratives that affected their respective protagonists, and how I could apply this to my writing. In doing so, I dilemmarised concerns such as Carver’s subjective position, his relation to other characters, his methods of investigation and, how the use of tone and atmosphere could be applied. Equally, in my research, I discovered what conventions writers used, and subsequently began to consider how these could be developed in my writing. From these investigations I then sought to apply such techniques in examining how the novel could evolve from a conventional work of hardboiled detective fiction to one that captures and utilises many of the tropes of noir fiction – suspense, anxiety, and guilt (Horsley, 2009, p. 8; Rubin, 1999, p. 21). Upon critical reflection, I recognised that though the novel retains traits of hardboiled detective fiction – the first-person narrative, the tough, cynical language (Christianson, 1989, p. 156; McCann, 2010, p. 42; Scaggs, 2005, p. 61), and a physicality of presence, particularly within the protagonist, the aesthetics within the text had altered to include constant shadows of guilt. For example:

A file of a previous case drew me in – a kid from Highton, who’d taken off ’cause his old man, a solicitor, who’d hit the bottle, and then the kid. The boy’s mother was a blabbering mess, before she’d dived for buried answers in a bottle of gin but found 278

only the bottom. One Sunday – Mother’s Day – she said she’d gone around to the old man’s house to pick up the kid but discovered he’d already skipped town. A scribbled note had been left on the kitchen table saying he couldn’t stay any more. The case wasn’t solved. The kid was still missing. I still felt bad about it (Mallon, p. 15).

While I initially sought for Carver to observe his noir world through a cynical lens, I realised that this offered little retrospection, nor any sense of real character. Thus, as this example demonstrates, applying an emotive sensibility gave Carver depth and space to negotiate relationships and his investigation. Through this literary and aesthetic shift, I felt a tension became located within the unresolved generic ambiguity of the text – a blurring of generic conventions within crime fiction, which perhaps makes it difficult to precisely label the work as a hardboiled detective fiction or noir fiction.

As elaborated in Chapter 3: Voice, I discovered during the drafting process that I did not want a traditional hardboiled detective protagonist, but rather an individual affected by his relationships and environment. Thus, upon further research, I felt that by attempting to develop a psychological frame through which Carver could be positioned to reflect, but also observe, he could better articulate his frame of mind concerning relationships and a sense of his world. I pursued this course as I needed him to appear maladjusted, but also to contend with a sense of emptiness in his life. For example, I attempted to articulate his feelings following his lover, Lauren’s suicide (Mallon, pp. 186-188); and, then again through his bereavement during his investigation (Mallon, pp. 193-198). In considering how to express this psychological or emotional frame I further investigated noir tropes and how these could be applied in my writing.

By creating tension within Carver’s spaces of domesticity; that is, his “sites of cohesive, normative social structures” (Horsley, 2009, p. 98), and utilising a post- industrial backdrop, I found that I could make Carver’s subject position move along a spectrum of masculinity so that he could slide from a hardboiled position of cynicism and detachment to a place of existential angst and psychological trauma, displaying expressions of guilt and loss, as recognised in noir crime fiction. With this in mind, I felt that if I could introduce the melodramatics of a relationship, albeit dysfunctional, I

279 would be able to provide an establishing mood and tension before the investigation is instigated and pursued. Here, I sought to capture such melodramatic tension when Carver stays at Lauren’s apartment and laments about ambiguity of their relationship. For example:

Her face had brightened, but uneasiness remained in her eyes. ‘I see. So, you’re all right?’ She glanced past me. ‘I guess I just feel a little down, that’s all. Was your ex like me, Frankie?’ (Mallon, p. 9)

Here, I endeavoured to demonstrate Carver’s ambivalence and a lack of effective agency in his relationship with Lauren. Thus, while also plagued by lust and obsession, Carver, like similar noir protagonists is “[v]ulnerable, insecure, inept, he is acutely aware of being in an inferior position, unable to assert his masculine authority or to feel he is in control of his fate” (Horsley, 2009, p. 69). Applying this sense of vulnerability allowed me to articulate Carver’s feelings of loss concerning other characters, but also within himself.

Instigating thematic devices such as guilt and anxiety, I believe, not only further plays with the traditional hardboiled detective subgenre, but also heightens its difference and hybrid nature. It could be argued that when this occurs, the text has become a hardboiled-noir fiction – conforming, yet nuancing traditional hardboiled detective fiction, but also appropriately utilising traditional noir tropes, and providing tension to extenuate the mood and atmosphere of domestic spaces.

Finding the noir space

In my research, I discovered the noir world conjures a vision of tension and ambiguity; fed by anxiety, pessimism, nihilism (Porfirio, 1996, p. 81), crime, deceit, neurosis, and victimisation (Rubin, 1999, p. 91), violence, and ultimately death (Borde & Chaumeton, 1996, p. 19). The noir world, usually an urban setting (Hoppenstand, 1998, p. 151) is a place where no one seeks to go and a place inhabited by those who cannot escape; a space where those who reside in or visit that space are consumed by an angst that places its inhabitants in positions of suspicion, foreboding, and guilt (Horsley, 2009, p. 11). In considering these themes, I attempted to place Carver in 280 spaces that create a sense of foreboding, and an emptiness that may be a reflection of himself. For example, in Lorne he observes:

The view from my room took in some of Louttit Bay and the glow of neon along the foreshore. The lights were inviting, but there was a sense of darkness beyond the blue- tinged night I couldn’t understand. I didn’t like it (Mallon, p. 72).

In this example, I aimed to situate Carver in places which not only provide settings for his investigation, but also spaces in which he illustrates bleakness and a sense of fatality.

Literary scholar Stephen Knight (2010) describes the noir world as one of moral and legal corruption. This is emphasised by a “hazy noir mood and aesthetic” (Rubin, 1999, p. 92), in which society “is not a fragrant world, but it is the world you live in” (Chandler, 1988, p. 17). While a noir aesthetic is employed by Chandler, it is arguably enhanced by traditional noir crime writers such as Cain, Browne, Hughes, and Goodis, as well as contemporary novelists such as Burke and Lovitt, who propel narratives from a generalised statement about urban decay (Knight, 1980, p. 154), as often depicted in hardboiled detective fiction, into an existential personal experience of threat, anxiety, and pessimism (Horsley, 2009, p. 8; Knight, 1980, p. 154) as portrayed in noir crime fiction. Indeed, Howard Browne’s Man in the Dark (1952) provides an influential narrative and protagonist as he becomes consumed by his wife’s disappearance: “Now that I had come home and found the place deserted, the fear was crawling into my throat, closing it to the point where breathing seemed a conscious effort” (p. 97). Similarly, Dorothy B. Hughes’ Ride the Pink Horse (1958) offers a protagonist whose sense of loneliness and alienation, as a stranger in a strange town during fiesta, is palpable: “What sucked into his pores for that moment was panic although he could not have put a name to it. The panic of loneness; of himself the stranger although was himself unchanged, the creeping loss of identity” (p. 57). I sought to apply similar techniques in my writing in order to create a noir aesthetic. To demonstrate this, I aimed to describe Carver’s feelings after Lauren had abruptly left him:

The walk back to the office was slow. My head flittered between Lauren, Cassandra, and the girl found dead in the hostel. I felt surrounded by loss, buried in emptiness.

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The walk led me through Westfield plaza. The place was crowded, but I was alone amongst the chatter (Mallon, p. 130).

By developing these elements in my writing, I was able to mould my protagonist from his relationships and environment. Thus, rather than have him appear resolute and detached, I could place him within a noir world whereby he experiences a sense of anxiety, loneliness and doom.

The aesthetic and sensibility of noir tends to resonate during periods of crises, discontent, and anxiety (Horsley, 2009, p. 8; Knight, 1980, p. 154; Porfirio, 1996, p. 90). So, in creating Erskine Falls, I considered how I could develop this sense of discontent through the socio-economic and cultural shifts in Geelong. As I further discuss in Chapter 4: Place, I examined how the city’s post-industrial landscape, of service industries and burgeoning gentrification, could be articulated through Carver’s reflections and observations. This is, for example, articulated in Carver’s cynical view of the city’s changing topography: “Big money poured into town making it more like a Melbourne beach suburb. The city’s old bluestone laneways and sandstone terraces were getting lost in the glitz” (Mallon, p. 8); and, similarly, as he drives into Lorne: “The drive took me back into town, past the frenetic blur of people at bars and restaurants along the foreshore – fellas with their girlfriends – all innocent and smiles, like a scene from a bad TV drama” (Mallon, p. 47). This approach allowed Carver to articulate his cynicism towards such environments, yet also provide a sense of uncertainty about the socio-cultural change taking place in his city, and the differences between the novel’s two locations: Geelong and Lorne.

According to critic and scholar Lee Horsley (2009) the noir aesthetic and sensibility is demonstrated through a disillusionment with societal and institutional structures and a lack of effective agency or autonomy (pp. 12-13). In applying this thematic device, I contemplated how such sensibilities could be articulated in the protagonist’s investigation. This element of disillusionment I felt was particularly interesting. However, I was initially uncertain how I could incorporate this noir motif within the narrative. The family unit provides such a social structure that could be investigated. I was intrigued to learn that family disharmony had been a topic of narrative exploration as early as Greek and Roman times, with their tragedies often solving a mystery mired in familial disorder and uncertainty (Scaggs, 2005, p. 9). 282

These spectres of the past, as Paul Skenazy (1995) notes, are a gothic casualty of the hauntings that structure most crime narratives in which “a secret from the past [...] represents an occurrence or desire antithetical to the principles and position of the house (or family)” (p. 114). This convention also had been similarly employed in Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939), Ross Macdonald’s The Name is Archer (1976) and James Lee Burke’s Crusaders Cross (2005) concerning familial relationships and the past. Indeed, in The Name is Archer (1976) a psychoanalytic treatment is applied towards the cases protagonist Lew Archer investigates, indicating that the family is less than ideal (Knight, 2010, p. 124).

In returning to my novel, I sought to develop similar themes and began to look at the choices available to me concerning the complexity of relationships within a familial space. These, I discovered, were quite open. For example, I could have examined the relationship between Lawrence Erskine and his children further by adapting and probing the more complex relationship between Anne Erskine and her children, Cassandra and Simon, following her divorce from Lawrence Erskine.

As mentioned in Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I pursued this course because not only did it provide an interesting convention to nuance in my writing, but it also allowed me to toy with familial relationships and subvert the ideal form of normative family that otherwise may be displayed in Lorne.

As the novel progressed, I became further interested in how I could develop a sense of defeatism or fatalism in Carver. Horsley (2009) notes that such

[c]haracters suffer either from failures of agency or from loss of community [...] they struggle with fatality, suffering from existential despair as they act out narratives that raise the question whether they are making their own choices or following a course dictated by fate (p. 11).

This thematic device, I realised, could be developed in creating a dysfunctional relationship, as mentioned, between Carver and Lauren, but also in the outcome of his investigation. For example, I initially considered that Carver would find the missing girl, Cassandra, deceased. But, upon reflection, I felt that if she was found alive, though brain injured (Mallon, p. 261) this could deepen the narrative and heighten Carver’s sense of failure as there is no closure through death. Cassandra, like Carver’s

283 psychological state, lives in limbo. Therefore, I did not want the reader to be satisfied with a happy ending, but rather that of a noir conclusion where there is either no real end or the outcome is bleak.

Though noir aesthetics are present in other literary sub-genres such as gothic and melodrama (Horsley, 2009, p. 229; Scaggs, 2005, p. 16; Schrader, 1996, p. 54; Orr, 1997, p. 23), it is the trope of foreboding or pending doom in noir crime fiction – where there is a space of suspense – that fascinated me. To develop this in my writing, I aimed to situate the protagonist and other characters in foreboding spaces, such as – Erskine Falls (the actual waterfalls), the derelict Anglesea house, and Lauren’s apartment. For example, in searching for Cassandra, Carver expresses a sense of foreboding at Erskine Falls:

I remembered the fear inside me, the claustrophobic hold of the forest, its sounds that strangled my senses as I found myself with no one around. Now I was back (Mallon, p. 239).

Here, I sought to create a space of pain and anxiety, rather than of pleasure and calm. Utilising this trope, amongst others, I felt provided me and the reader with a more nuanced view of the protagonist’s world than is found in the traditional hardboiled detective genre.

The noir aesthetic also may be extrapolated to illustrate what defines it beyond the look or foreboding atmosphere, and to examine elements such as mood, themes, characterisation, point of view, and narrative pattern (Horsley, 2009, p. 7; Telotte, 1989, pp. 10-13). Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton (1996) note that, “[i]t is the presence of crime that gives noir its most constant characteristic” (p. 19). However, Bernard F. Dick (1995) contends that thematically, the noir text’s prominent trope is the acknowledgement of a world “in which blind chance has replaced divine providence” (p. 155). In recognising this, I aimed to capture an ethos of blind chance, but I was initially uncertain how I could achieve this in the text. As my writing progressed, the fatalism trope allowed me to creatively imagine how particular characters could meet their fate, potentially through blind chance. This then led me to consider how it could be applied to specific characters and settings. To achieve this, I felt that Lauren could provide an allegory for Cassandra’s relationship with her

284 mother, and near death, during her last conversation with Carver. Lauren describes a scene from her balcony:

Then I noticed that one of the chicks was perched on the edge of the nest,’ she said. ‘Suddenly, a gust of wind hit me – I felt it rush past me and watched my dress flow with the breeze. I looked back at the nest. The chick fell – its little wings weren’t strong enough for it to fly. It hit the puddle – muddied water splashed onto the tree and grass. Then I looked at the nest – the mother had come back. I imagined her looking for her little chick – calling for it, but nothing. I suppose she then fed the other chicks and then flew off again to search for food as their little beaks gaped for more. My hands gripped the railings as I looked away up the street but I didn’t feel anything’ (Mallon, p. 186).

In this passage, I aimed to articulate Lauren’s mental and ontological perspective, and for it to be questioned by Carver (and potentially the reader). In doing so, I sought to provide the protagonist, and other characters, a sense of being in a world that no longer makes sense.

Gary Hoppenstand (1998) illustrates this perplexing state whereby characters within noir texts find themselves in plots where they are trapped by hedonistic passions; trapped by an apathetic society, or trapped by events beyond their control (p. 151). Through further investigation, I found similar noir texts follow a plot which, as Dick (1995) notes “requires a special kind of disbelief” (p. 159). In developing Erskine Falls, I looked to provide this thematic device of the unexpected, to create an immediate plunge from a stable reality or unpredictability through the plot, and within the nature of the flawed characters themselves. To enable this, I considered how the thematics of an unstable reality could be realised. This led me to explore the frailty of characters, such as through Lauren’s suicide, and by creating a hedonistic demimonde in Lorne, a setting which would not ordinarily exist. This, I hoped, would achieve a sense of (dis)belief within a (un)real world. As a result, I sought to create a novel that provided characters and the reader with a sense of dislocation, and, like other noir works, a bleak ending.

In this section, I have discussed how I endeavoured to use conventions in both traditional hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction, and yet nuance them to create a contemporary noir world. In utilising these elements, I have sought for my protagonist

285 to observe his world through a cynical lens as he navigates the emotional minefield of the domestic, of pervasive loss, and of guilt whilst also trying to understand Geelong’s post-industrial landscape and the glitzy, touristic surface and dark underbelly of Lorne.

The limitations of genre

In writing Erskine Falls, I attempted to create a crime fiction novel that captures tropes within the subgenres of both hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction. This proved both rewarding and problematic. Therefore, here I explore how I sought to fit my novel within the crime fiction subgenres. Yet, in doing so, I found that it was also limited by its conventions. As my research progressed, I discovered critic Martin Rubin (1999) contends that the crime fiction genre operates on two interrelated levels – (level 1) through a level of specific themes and iconography (p. 4), i.e., in the hardboiled detective novel there are: private eyes or police, offices, bars, usually urban landscapes, investigations of crime; and, (level 2) through a level of general relationships, patterns and structural elements (p. 4), such as the fracture between the individual and society, an erotic relationship between (anti)hero and (female) villain, and the overcoming of hurdles to solve the crime. Such genre conventions within crime fiction are stylised. Indeed, it could be argued that these discursive configurations, narrative procedures and stylistic emphases are then manipulated and contorted, and permeate as sliding subgenres of crime fiction, such as hardboiled, police procedural, and noir fiction.

In crafting the novel, I realised that a blurring of the genre convention has made it problematic to definitively label Erskine Falls under the crime fiction umbrella as either hardboiled or noir, since it is both, particularly as the protagonist negotiates the domestic space. I believe this element distances the text from similar hardboiled detective texts such as Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939), Ross Macdonald’s The Name is Archer (1976), and Peter Corris’ Open File (2008) and heightens its difference and generic hybridity. This is demonstrated by foregrounding the relationship between Carver and Lauren, but also in further exploring Carver’s own domestic space and, he how inhabits that environment (see for instance, Mallon, p. 132).

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The genre system also allows both a stabilisation of conventions; that is, the texts of one genre, conforming to parameters established across pre-existing texts, and the production of an essential degree of differentiation (Krutnik, 1991, p. 7). Genre is built from a discourse of intertextual threads that are weaved to (re)create texts within a genre or subgenre, such as in hardboiled and noir crime fiction. However, Jacques Derrida (2002) examines the question of genre and its taxonomy through its markers and institutionalised classifications, through a loi du genre or a law of genre. In doing so, Derrida recognises a limitation of genre, that “[a]s soon as the word genre is sounded, as soon as it is heard, as soon as one attempts to conceive it, a limit is drawn” (p. 224). This further problematises the generic conventions of crime fiction, let alone those within the sliding subgenres of the hardboiled and noir text by limiting the genre and its subgenres to its particular conventions.

Thus, the crime genre comprises elements such as codes of other genres. Therefore, “[e]very text participates in one or several genres, there is no genreless text, there is always a genre and genres, yet such participation never amounts to belonging” (Derrida, 2002, p. 230). In developing Erskine Falls, I would argue that it is a hardboiled-noir text; insofar as within a crime fiction spectrum, the novel and its protagonist oscillate between hardboiled and noir. This has allowed me, as further discussed in Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework and Chapter 4: Place, to provide characters (particularly the protagonist) with spaces within which gender and subjectivity may be articulated and negotiated. However, despite my attempt to nuance the protagonist, the narrative still follows the conventions of the detective genre; in that, the investigator takes on a case and pursues an investigation until the culprit is caught. To extrapolate, George Grella (1988) observes that detective fiction is centred on its hero, and the society through which he navigates and investigates, rather than the mystery, which becomes sidelined during the adventure (p. 115).

Yet, in toying with characters and their motives, the boundaries in which the novel moves are by no means fixed and precise. For example, the femme fatale character in traditional hardboiled detective and noir crime novels uses her apparent vulnerability to appeal to the investigator’s sense of honour, but is later revealed as treacherous, personally threatening, and then possibly punished (Scaggs, 2005, p. 77). In creating Erskine Falls, while I did seek to use some of these tropes, such as Rebecca flirting with, and confiding in, Carver, I did not want my femme fatale to get caught, 287 but rather remain resilient, free and allow others to take the fall, notably her cuckold husband, Larry. What was useful for me in the trope of the femme fatale, however, was her presence as a temptation that creates further guilt in Carver. Erskine treats Carver well and is his employer for much of the duration of the story. If Carver were to consummate a relationship with Rebecca he would be doubly guilty: of betrayal of a kindness and of betrayal of an employer.

In crafting Rebecca, I recognised this type of female character had featured in works by Hammett, Chandler and Cain, and then was later developed post-World War Two by several crime fiction writers, particularly pulp novelists of the era (Horsley, 2009, p. 20) such as Paul Cain, Lawrence Block, Carter Brown and Jim Thompson. Therefore, rather than echoing traditional hardboiled detective novels, I felt I needed to nuance this character and employ noir crime fiction techniques, thus allowing her to get away with the crime, while the men around her remained inept, including the protagonist. Re-crafting the traditional role of the femme fatale and nuancing the dynamics of the conventional plot gave me space to (re)consider conventions within the hardboiled detective subgenre; and to be cognisant in how the use of such tropes are still required to frame a new text within the crime fiction genre.

Conclusion

In conclusion, it has become apparent that what I sought to achieve within the artefact and exegesis – the creation of a private eye protagonist and his investigations in a contemporary noir world – has not only changed my perceptions and assumptions about hardboiled and noir writers’ works but also, on reflection, my writing process. Through a hermeneutic synthesis of creative and scholarly texts, I believe that I have not only produced an exegesis of sound research and critical reflection, but also a novel of publishable quality and originality, which offers a new protagonist within the detective fiction canon. I contribute to knowledge by testing how a work can move between these two genres.

In the course of my writing and research, the mood of the novel I had initially sought to achieve has altered from a traditional hardboiled detective fiction to one that provides a psychological frame that contains the noir tropes of suspense, anxiety, guilt, and loss. Subsequently, while the text retains the traits of the hardboiled detective

288 fiction – the first-person narrative; the tough talk and cynical language, particularly within the protagonist’s internal dialogue – the mood and atmosphere had changed.

I have been able through a practice-led research methodology, to identify, examine and develop methodologies in literary practice and theory in my praxis. In doing so, I have explored ways to develop character detail and psychologies, settings, and investigated how such tones and aesthetics, particularly within noir fiction, have contributed to the work in which I am engaged.

Furthermore, this practice-led research has allowed me to expand from investigating the hardboiled and noir subgenres of crime fiction and how this is articulated in the novel, to how these elements are reflected in Carver’s sense of masculinity and subject position. Therefore, in Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I discuss the masculine subjectivity of Carver as an investigator; the dilemmas of his investigation as he negotiates Geelong’s post-industrial landscape; and his interactions with others within a contemporary noir world.

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Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework

In the first chapter of the exegesis, Genre, I explained how my novel Erskine Falls and its protagonist, private investigator Frank Carver oscillate on a spectrum of crime fiction subgenres – moving from hardboiled detective to noir literature. This chapter explores in detail how masculinity provides a conceptual framework for this exegesis, with a focus on Carver’s subjectivity as a man in a post-industrial landscape, and as an investigator in this contemporary noir world. The chapter considers how notions of masculinity affect my positioning of Carver within his investigation and in his interactions with others, particularly in domestic spaces, and how they frame the character’s sense of identity.

Crafting Carver’s sense of masculine identity has been one of the most satisfying, but also demanding aspects of writing Erskine Falls. In exploring the ideas and concepts around masculinity, not only was I influenced by hardboiled detective and noir fiction tropes, but also the critical material on the crime sub-genres that examines issues such as relationships, psychosexuality and guilt. I then attempted to explore these concerns through Carver's position as the protagonist in a contemporary post-industrial landscape, and how this could be applied to the setting of Geelong. The desire to provide a particular masculine subject in Carver led me to research the nature of masculinity in a noir world. In this respect, I explore several issues through a number of sub-sections, such as: how can Carver’s masculinity be conveyed; masculinity in a post-industrial landscape; and, relationships and sexuality.

Masculinity generally refers to the “social, cultural and psychological qualities of being male” (Bessant & Watts, 1999, p. 169) and provides a broad expression of masculine gender. However, a more specific concept of masculinity can be defined as “a configuration of practice organised in relation to the structure of gender relations” (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005, p. 843). I found theorist Robert Connell’s gender and social practice theories concerning masculinity allowed me to extend from generalist notions of masculinity to specific constructions of masculinity within social contexts. To extrapolate, Connell (2005) contends there are common themes concerning masculinity, these include: masculinity constructions in everyday life,

290 economic and institutional structures, differences amongst masculinities and, the conflicting and changing nature of gender (p. 35). Connell notes that “gender is not fixed in advance of social interaction, but is constructed interaction, which is an important theme in the modern sociology of gender” (p. 35). This led me to advance my understanding of how masculine subjectivity, practices, and gender relations diverge and intersect between Carver and other characters, and aided in making Carver a more nuanced protagonist.

In my research, I often found myself returning to Connell’s theoretical framework on gender as a structure of social practice. Connell (2005) theorises a three- layered structure of gender, comprising relations of: (i) Power, (ii) Production, and (iii) Cathexis (emotional attachment) (p. 74). He posits that firstly, power is the main axis of patriarchal authority within a Western context of the dominance of men and the subordination of women. Connell notes that while this general structure exists there are local reversals, such as female school principals, woman-headed households, female CEOs and political leaders. Secondly, he argues that production concerns the relation between gendered division of labour and the allocation of tasks, and the economics of labour division. Thirdly, he suggests that cathexis is the practices that shape and realise sexual desire and emotional attachment, and its politics concerning consensual or coercive relationships (p. 74). Connell’s approach, I felt, offered me a grounding from which I could build my protagonist and his role in the world.

Thus, I began to reflect and recognise how I could utilise Connell’s theoretical framework within my novel. To pursue this, I considered how each element could be used to articulate Carver’s sense of masculinity through social practice. In examining relations of Power, I explored how Carver’s masculinity is negotiated through sites of social practice, such as his office, or domestic spaces; and, how such interactions provide him, and other characters, with a form of power. For example, I looked at how Carver’s sense of masculinity could be problematised by female characters, such as his lover, Lauren, at her apartment, when she questions her relationship with Carver (Mallon, p. 9); and when his secretary, Janice, remarks about why he is divorced after he complains about her completing his newspaper crossword (p. 14). Thus, by letting the reader see Carver within domestic and work spaces, I felt that Carver’s masculinity could be dilemmarised and communicated through gender relations and social practices. 291

In investigating Connell’s second theme of Production relations, I looked at how Carver and Janice are both socially positioned within the office; and how, through their actions, they interact and create a work environment. In this respect, while Janice is subordinate to Carver, her position holds a degree of power as she effectively operates the business. Similarly, Anne Erskine, as the client, carries economic power as Carver’s paymaster. Thus, while Carver as the PI may demonstrate a form of power through ownership of his own skills and labour and through the PI’s lack of embeddedness in the law enforcement hierarchies of the state (Knight, 2010, p. 113; Nicol, 2013, pp.12-14, p.148; Scaggs, 2005, p. 61), this power may only be sustained through Anne’s position as his paying client. Hence Carver’s position is inherently unstable and any sense of agency is constantly under threat. This cohered well with the nature of the typical noir world and acted to anchor Carver’s personal struggles to those most commonly found in the sub-genre.

In applying Connell’s third category, Cathexis, I looked at how Carver could articulate his desire and emotional attachment towards his lover, Lauren. As my writing progressed, I felt that Carver’s desire for Lauren could potentially blur with the missing girl, Cassandra, providing him further conflict and confusion as his investigation continued. Thus, the iterative process of the practice-led research methodology allowed me room to consider and develop these ideas, spurred by Cornell’s theories, in relation to each character’s actions and motivations, and also to the noir world that surrounds Carver. Connell’s work then led me to other theorists who examine masculinity and gender such as Judith Kegan Gardiner (2013), Kevin Goddard (2000), and Kevin Alexander Boon (2005). From this point, I began to reflect upon how I could apply this range of ‘masculinist’ theories to my novel and to create a narrative where ‘masculinity’ is negotiated rather than innate within the male protagonist.

How is Carver’s masculinity conveyed?

In writing Erskine Falls, I sought to create a male protagonist whose outdated concepts of masculinity clashes with contemporary mores. As I wrote the novel and started making decisions about who Carver was to be, I slipped into giving him the stereotypical hardboiled detective qualities of the cynical loner who is aloof from relationships (Beinhart, 1996, p. 116; Paretsky, 2007, p. 91; Scaggs, 2005, p. 59), who 292 tends to experience feelings of detachment from their social milieu and exists outside the “socio-economic order of family, friends, work and home” (Scaggs, 2005, p. 59), who is unable to maintain intimate friendships (Klein, 1995, p. 201; Scaggs, 2005, p. 55), and who tends to view with suspicion any arms of law and order they may encounter (Scaggs, 2005, p. 60). This made him seem one dimensional and almost improbable in today’s world of hyper-connectedness. So as my research progressed, I returned to Connell’s (2005) work on multiple forms of masculinity in order to try to move Carver out of this stereotypical space and to build into Carver different forms of masculinity; that is, to nuance him through relations of alliance, dominance and subordination. Connell notes that these relationships are constructed through gender practices that exclude and include, and that intimidate and exploit (p. 37). Thus, in returning to my novel, I felt I needed to create a protagonist of greater depth. In doing so, I wanted to examine Carver’s sense of masculinity; his emotional and psychosexual aspects, his interactions with both male and female characters; and, his personal failings. This, then led me to question, how can Carver’s masculinity be conveyed?

Connell (2005) contends that, “[m]asculinity (...) is simultaneously a place in gender relations, the practices through which men and women engage that place in gender, and the effects of these practices in bodily experience, personality and culture” (p. 71). In this context, I aimed to convey in Carver not what epitomises tough or heroic masculinity, but rather what muddies such notions within the protagonist. For example, I sought for Carver to be gripped by vertigo as Rebecca watches him traverse the stairs at the Erskine house:

I thought I heard a voice behind me, but when I turned to look back, the feeling became worse. My sweaty hand gripped the wire railing and hoped my legs wouldn’t fall. Rebecca looked at me as my feet gingerly took each step down (Mallon, p. 61).

Thus, I then examined how Carver’s sense of masculinity could be problematised through gender relations and space. As mentioned, I considered how, and in which spaces, Carver’s subjective position could be challenged by female characters, such as Lauren at her apartment; and, Janice in the office (Mallon, p. 14). I re-introduced the cited passage in which, through repartee, Janice questions why Carver is divorced, from a previous draft as I found that it added not only depth to the

293 scene, but also clearly made Carver feel that he was not the dominant personality in his own office.

As outlined in Connell’s (2005) theories concerning gender, this sentiment is characteristic of situations whereby both men and women are expected to “enact a general set of expectations which are attached to one's sex – the sex role” (p. 22). In a cultural context, there is a sex binary – two sex roles – male and female, which Connell contends are internalised and interpreted as masculinity and femininity through socialisation (p. 22). Utilising this concept, I aimed to create gendered spaces that allowed Carver and other characters that inhabit the space to interact, but then moved the ownership of power back and forth between them, or removed it from Carver. In considering this, I discovered traditional or normative forms of masculinity displayed through power, action, stoicism, control, and independence, become devalued by relationships, domesticity, women and children (Barker, 2000, p. 228; Gates 2006, p. 34). To pursue this theme, I felt that by deliberately creating domestic spaces which may “threaten to contain and emasculate” masculinity (Plain, 2014, p. 71) for the characters, I could distance my protagonist from both the traditional hardboiled detective and subvert ideal masculine traits. This could slide Carver along a spectrum from tough hardboiled masculinity to a form of perceived weakness more typically found in noir fiction.

Thus, as I further discuss in Chapter 4: Place, I sought to articulate a sense of confined masculinity by using the domestic sphere within the frame of Geelong’s post- industrial landscape. This then led me to explore how I could develop psychological and emotive features within my protagonist, such as his feelings towards Lauren, his deceased colleague Bowman, his client, Anne, and the Erskine family, rather than solely exploring physical aspects of his character as a private eye.

As discussed in the previous chapter, Genre, I discovered that conflating hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction subgenres provided a blurring of genre conventions within a crime fiction spectrum (Rubin, 1999, p. 93). So, to create verisimilitude, my protagonist needed to display a range of human traits such as lust, obsession, fear, ambivalence, and nihilism, that not only provide a portrait of frailties, but also fit within the frame of noir narratives typically featuring a lonely male protagonist who is alienated, affected by the past, and without clear sense of moral

294 virtues (Orr, 1997, p. 23; Place, 1999, p. 41; Porfirio, 1996, p. 81). To develop these existential tropes, I returned to the novel and investigated ways Carver could demonstrate such expressions. For example, this led me to re-examine his relationship with his deceased colleague Lyle Bowman. As a result, I modified Carver’s attitude towards Bowman from being initially ambivalent to empathetic. Similarly, Carver moved from being passionate toward Lauren to being anxious. This shift, I felt, allowed me to explore how feelings of anxiety and isolation that emerged from Carver’s failings could be expressed as his investigation into the missing girl progressed.

While seeking to develop existential qualities within Carver, I turned back to the traditional or a normative definition of masculinity because I felt that he still needed to also convey this sentiment as the male protagonist in the course of his investigations. This definition, as Connell (2005) describes, is found within cultural studies and popular media representations through exemplars such as actors Harrison Ford, Liam Neeson or Bruce Willis (p. 70), and typifies values of bravery, self- reliance, male camaraderie and competency (Barker, 2000, p. 228; Macionis & Plummer, 2012, p. 394). Robert Hanke (1992) describes this as a “particular version or model of masculinity that operates on the terrain of common sense and conventional morality that defines ‘what it means to be a man’” (p. 190). However, in developing an Australian protagonist, I realised I also required constructing a character of Australian masculinity if my character was to function as an authentic mimesis of an Australian male private eye.

Though there are some archetypal characteristics among American and British male lead characters, i.e., the tough, cynical, streetwise tropes (Christianson, 1989, p. 156; McCann, 2010, p. 42; Scaggs, 2005, p. 61), there are nuances that make an Australian male lead invariably different. According to writer Jackie Hogan (2008), Australian males still tend to identify with images and icons of an earlier era exemplifying an egalitarian, hardiness, and an anti-authoritarian spirit (p. 19). Similarly, Mahalik, Levi-Minzi and Walker (2007) note that while comprising many distinct masculinities, Australian male identity is tied to images and icons of the athlete, bushman, mate/digger, and larrikin which men are held to emulate (p. 241). However, these heroic icons also provide problematic or even negative masculine

295 tendencies such as ignoring injury, taking risks, misogyny, fear of femininity, drunkenness, and brawling (p. 242).

In recognising this, I did attempt to capture some of these nuances through Carver’s masculine subjectivity (egalitarian, anti-authoritarian), though I was also cognisant of local writers and their protagonist’s sense of masculinity. For example, Stephen Knight (2010) observes that Peter Corris’ Cliff Hardy PI, is “a rugged individualist in the national self-image”, while Shane Maloney’s witty political advisor cum inquirer Murray Whelan, and Peter Temple’s former lawyer and amateur investigator Jack Irish (p. 142), offer a variant to the PI archetype as well as to the stereotypical Australian male. Similarly, Lenny Bartulin’s (2008) bookshop owner and occasional freelancer Jack Susko, and more recently Emma Viskic’s private eye Caleb Zelic (2015) and Zane Lovitt’s (2012) John Dorn provide nuanced local versions of the PI tradition. So, by creating Carver with his urbane manner, he is placed between informality – associated with Geelong’s post-industrial landscape and streetwise toughness – and the refinement of Lorne's upper-middle class milieu; he is a man capable of being in many spaces, yet belonging to none.

To pursue this, I then returned to Rubin’s spectrum concept (1999) and looked at how Carver’s differing experiences of masculinity could oscillate from existential noir back to heroic hardboiled, and how this might further dilemmarise his sense of masculinity. This negotiation of research and creative practice allowed me to then question what type of hero is my private eye, if, in fact, he is a hero? For example, I aimed for Carver to experience an existential sense of paranoia whilst at Erskine Falls (Mallon, p. 239) as I felt I needed Carver to experience childhood feelings of fear and isolation, before returning to hardboiled cynic in locating Cassandra and then questioning Rebecca at Erskine’s house (Mallon, pp. 244-249). I needed to ask myself, what role did perceptions of masculinity play in these?

This question led me to writer Tom Hiney’s (1997) work on novelist Raymond Chandler, in which he observes that “[l]ike westerns, hard-boiled detective stories had always held up strong, handsome and honest men for heroes” (p. 246). While I attempted to portray such masculine tropes in Carver, I also sought to muddy these ideals. Gill Plain (2014) observes that “the detective (...) always exists in negotiation with a series of long-established masculine codes” (p. 11). Thus, I found that while

296 these normative traits may be explored as a set of expectations created, maintained and reproduced (Craig, 1992, p. 2) within society, they do not exemplify the qualities that Carver needed to possess in order to fulfil the function of the story and to perform as authentic and original.

In this section, I have articulated how I attempted to create a male protagonist that struggles with his sense of masculinity. In doing so, I have sought to illustrate how Carver’s masculine subject position is negotiated and problematised through use of gendered spaces, particularly within the domestic sphere; treating Carver as a ‘male’ figure then allowed me to consider his role as male private eye.

Masculinity and the hardboiled detective in a post-industrial landscape

I realised that my exploration of the relationship between Carver, traditionally gendered spaces, and anxiety did not need to be confined to his interior life. The various settings of the investigations could also help shape, define and interrogate his sense of masculine identity.

With this in mind, I investigated ways in which the hardboiled detective’s anxieties within the domicile began to spread into the outside world. Here, I realised that his psychological condition could be manoeuvred to not only add a sense of depth to his character, but also to provide a verisimilitude in the way his investigation is conducted. In pursuing this, I observed how fictional investigators such as Lew Griffin, John Dorn, Cliff Hardy, and Kurt Wallander, too faced dilemmas that resonate in the protagonist’s “state of mind, (in) his desires, obsessions and anxieties” and affect “how he functions as a victim, transgressor or investigator” (Horsley, 2009, p. 8). Therefore, to develop Carver’s subjectivity I felt I needed to explore his role as not only an investigator in a noir world, but also as a victim of that world.

While pursuing this, I discovered Leonard Cassuto’s work (2008) explaining that the hard-boiled novel:

typically features a tough and laconic protagonist, often but not always a detective, making his way in an indifferent world that he navigates by establishing a code of behaviour that substitutes for the corrupted morals of the society he occupies (p. 4). 297

In this sense, I felt Carver, like similar male hardboiled protagonists, has, as critic Janey Place (1999) observes:

been inexplicably uprooted from those values, beliefs and endeavours that offer him meaning and stability, and in the almost exclusively urban landscape of film noir (in pointed contrast to the pastoral past, idealised, remembered past) he is struggling for a foothold in a maze of right and wrong (p. 41).

This inspired me to consider what world, values and beliefs might have originally offered Carver meaning and how he might be placed in a new world that usurped these; and, how these considerations led me to evaluate what impact might be had on his sense of masculine identity.

To further explore this point, I found that Christopher Vogler (2007) describes this type of protagonist as an anti-hero. This lead character, usually male, behaves like conventional heroes, but with a cynical touch, or has a “wounded quality”; or is a tragic hero, who may not be liked or admired (p. 35). In further research, I found that the anti-hero – ‘a hero who is not a hero’ is an example of theorist Jean-François Lyotard’s (1979) postmodern conception of the breakdown of metanarratives and the deconstruction of its heroes, voyages, and goals. This “incredulity towards metanarratives” (p. xxxiv), as Lyotard describes, is more localised in particular regions, such as the United States and other Western countries, rather than globally.

Though similar to America, in Australia a decline in the effectiveness of metanarratives in the latter half of the 20th century could be attributed to various factors, including poor public opinion about the Vietnam War, the Whitlam dismissal, a raised awareness of political, economic, racial/ethnic and gender diversity (Boon, 2005, p. 302), and perceptions about how governments are dealing with threats to everyday life such as terrorism and visible criminal activity. Therefore, in returning to my novel, I attempted to illustrate this breakdown of metanarratives through the use of Geelong as a post-industrial landscape. This was a natural choice given that I had grown up in this regional city and had witnessed the manufacturing-heavy area struggle to cope as industrial production wound down in the face of increasingly cheap imports and digitalisation of the labour force. I watched as the city attempted to morph

298 into a service and tourist driven economy, however, this left a large blue-collar male workforce facing a new employment market that did not match their skills.

Against this regional setting, I considered how such changes could affect Carver’s subject position. As further discussed in Chapter 4: Place, this then led me to reflect upon how the city’s dichotomy of decay and renewal could become a metaphor for the protagonist’s sense of self, as he transitions to recognising change. For example, I considered how he observes the city’s changing cultural economy from its dockyards and refinery to a cafe society (Mallon, p. 8). Broughton and Walton (2006) note that such changes reflect not only the potentiality of a loss of socio-economic agency and male identity but also an increased scrutiny of masculinity wrought by deindustrialisation. Thus, in seeking to develop noir themes within the novel, I felt it appropriate that my protagonist should be a man nearing middle-age, who recognises the changes taking place in his city, and how these social adjustments affect him.

This led me to investigate similar texts in which a discourse of masculinity and post-industrial landscapes intersect and which provide a nexus for a socio-cultural change. These include Dennis Lehane’s Gone Baby Gone (1998) set in Boston, Lila Shaara’s Atom Smasher (2011) located in Pittsburgh and Olivier Pauvert’s Noir (2007) situated in outer Paris. In these and similar texts, I noticed that though the characters lead ordinary lives they are forced to reconcile with events out of their control, such as a downturned economy or crime, resulting in them becoming disenfranchised. This was pivotal as it allowed me to illustrate the city’s dynamic change, and articulate how this shift is expressed through Carver’s place in this world.

To develop this, I discovered Carver mirrors similar PI protagonists who inhabit worlds to which they appear not to belong, or have trouble adapting such as James Sallis’ Griffin, Henning Mankell’s Wallander and Zane Lovitt’s Dorn; in that he is: “an alienated individual who exists outside or beyond the socio-economic order of family, friends, work, and home” (Scaggs, 2005, p. 59); and is “a man nearing middle age who has never married or (is) divorced” (Rawson, 2009, p. 294). To illustrate this sentiment, I had Carver reflect upon his appearance in a mirror in Lauren’s bathroom (Mallon, p. 5). Through this example, I attempted to play with traditional hardboiled detective fiction conventions by seeking to create a protagonist of average looks, yet not past his prime, but also one that appears to identify himself with his occupation and

299 those who surround it. I did this as I didn’t want Carver to appear heroic, like a “questing knight” (Scaggs, 2005, p. 62), but rather a flawed hero – an ambiguous character (Borde & Chaumeton, 1996, p. 22), a compromised figure who, to a degree, restores order and is “motivated by his own personal code of honour” (Scaggs, 2005, p. 62) in an extraordinary world. I wanted Carver to (re)attain his moral code and ideals.

Yet, I felt in my writing that he is not perhaps able to meet the same sense of valour as Chandler’s classic knight-errant Marlowe. Chandler’s famous passage on the nature of the hard-boiled hero inevitably sets the standard against which all hard-boiled protagonists are measured:

... down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor – by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in the world and a good enough man for any world (Chandler, 1988, p. 18).

While Carver’s transgressions initially disrupt this ethos, he does eventually emulate Marlowe’s honourable intentions. Conversely, when I attempted to place Carver in positions where he is morally challenged, I sought to demonstrate somewhat similar ethical sensibilities as Hammett’s Spade. Spade, like Carver, is involved in an adulterous relationship with Iva (his partner’s wife), and his desire for Brigid O’Shaughnessy could bring about his undoing (Gates, 2008, p. 14). William Luhr (1996) explores this further, particularly noting Humphrey Bogart's portrayal of Spade in John Huston's adaptation of The Maltese Falcon (1941) in which: “For him, sexuality is not carefree but dangerous and guilt-ridden” (p. 7). This resonated with me as I moved to layer a greater sense of guilt into Carver’s inner world and actions. Through his interactions with Rebecca, Carver could tread a guilt-laden path that leads him in an internal struggle through much of his investigation. Thus, I considered that Carver could be immersed in a world where as his transgressions become apparent, he is required to overcome them in a bid to retain some order.

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Guilt

Guilt is a core theme within literary and film noir (Horsley, 2009, p. 10; Knight, 2010, p. 121). Guilt arises from moral or private transgressions (Li, Stroebe, Chan & Chow, 2014, p. 166; Lyons, 2014, p. 1). However, unlike the conventional detective narrative in which an individual or party (i.e., the murderer/s) is deemed guilty, all characters in a noir world are guilty; they are all victims of their weakness, desire (Fluck, 2001, p. 392), anxiety and/or through isolation, betrayal (Horsley, 2009, p. 11). Thus, I realised that while some private eyes are “often said to be a man without a past” (Horsley, 2009, p. 41), I found that I not only wanted to create a PI protagonist whose present is determined by his past (Place, 1999, p. 41), but also by others around him. Indeed, as writer David Lehman (2000) observes of Archer, “(i)n Macdonald’s novels, everything means something. Nothing occurs in isolation; guilt connects the present and the past in a web of inevitability” (p. 171). Therefore, in constructing the narrative, I examined how Carver's past, akin to other protagonists, could be one that is consumed with guilt. For example, while I sought to demonstrate Carver’s consuming guilt over the death of his colleague Bowman, and his relationship with Lauren; I also looked at how he could reflect on his extended family. However, I felt that this motif did not add to the narrative. Instead, I offered glimpses of (his)tory regarding his divorce (Mallon, p. 14; p. 41) and how this could be interpreted through his relationship with other characters.

Winfried Fluck notes (2001) that noir fiction not only provides a puzzle about a crime but crucially determines legal and moral guilt (p. 392). To pursue this convention, I considered Carver’s role as a private eye. I felt that while Carver is not to be guilty of a heinous crime, he may be perceived as guilty in his failings towards others such as Lauren, as well as himself. This sentiment allowed me to further explore his ethical dilemmas. Thus, I sought to articulate his guilt through displays of anxiety (Porfirio, 1996, p. 81) and moral transgressions (Li et al., 2014, p. 166; Lyons, 2014, p. 1). In doing so, I attempted to explore how these thematic devices could be demonstrated in the narrative by looking at how these themes could not only be woven as a sub-plot of the narrative – regarding Carver’s sexually obsessive, yet fatalistic relationship with Lauren – but also through Carver’s interactions with Rebecca and missing girl, Cassandra. To demonstrates this, I sought to develop Carver’s consuming guilt when, for example, he becomes aroused watching pornographic footage of the

301 victim, Cassandra. However, rather than echoing Marlowe in The Big Sleep (1939) “who is neither tarnished nor afraid”, and a “man of honour” (Chandler, 1988, p. 18) when finding a naked Carmen Sternwood in Geiger’s house (Chandler, 1939, p. 38), I wanted Carver to physically and emotionally feel something from the experience. Therefore, by dissecting Carver’s pattern of guilt, I discovered that such real guilt, as Fluck (2001) notes “does not consist in their crime, which is a result of an accidental combination of circumstances beyond their control. It lies in their inner weakness which brought them into the mess in the first place” (p. 392).

Thus, echoing Robicheaux, Wallander, and Dorn, I attempted to capture an emotional tone in Carver’s life with expressions of loneliness, disappointment, and above all regret (McCann, 2010, p. 53). This tone is explored in the following passage, as Carver, racked with despair, listens to Betty Carter sing Lonely House, following Lauren’s suicide:

From within the shadows, I wondered which of the twins would do it, which one would blow my mind before the other. My body hunched over and leant towards the floor. ‘...There must be something I don’t comprehend...’ she sang. I opened my eyes and stared at my hands that gripped the bottle and the gun. Tears welled in my eyes – loss surrounded me (Mallon, p. 190).

As this example attempts to demonstrate, by exploring Carver’s guilt concerning both Lauren and Bowman’s deaths, this trauma takes an emotional toll on him, and his investigation. Indeed, as Li et al. (2014) note “more guilt follows an ambivalent pre-death relationship with the deceased, one characterised by argument, dissatisfaction, and frustration in the relationship” (p. 167). Therefore, I found that as my writing progressed, particularly following Lauren’s death and Carver’s subsequent existential guilt crisis, the narrative sub-plot (concerning Carver’s relationship with Lauren) provided an impetus for the protagonist to continue his investigation, as well as his moral quest for truth. As Fluck (2001) observes, the:

[i]nvestigative detective-noir (including the detective, the returning veteran and the falsely accused) is still informed by a notion of the authentic self. These noir characters appear guilty, and in order to redeem themselves they have to give the authentic self a chance to assert itself (p. 402). 302

Therefore, I looked at how Carver could (re)assert his authentic self. In doing so, I felt that this could be achieved by wanting him to redeem himself by being authentic in his feelings about Lauren. This process allowed me to give Carver space to not only convey his sorrow of losing Lauren, but in doing so, recognise his failings in being able to find Cassandra.

Through this approach, I also recognised that Carver should seek redemption in the form of a patriarchal figure, an older character that I felt Carver could confide in and bond with, rather than a female character of similar age, such as Janice. Critic Terry Lee (2003) observes that men who suffer and are paralysed with uncertainties find meaning, not from a profound realisation, but through the help of a mentor (p. 182). In considering this, I looked for potential mentors through whom Carver could ‘regain' his potency to resume his quest. Initially, I considered the police detective Roy Lane but found him to be too close to Carver's age; and, I felt that they shared an ambiguous relationship. Indeed, I found by returning to Connell’s (2005) work on multiple forms of masculinity, and the relations of alliance, dominance and subordination (p. 37), I recognised that Carver as a PI, is subordinate to Lane as a police officer, who through his position carries more legal (and moral) authority. Thus, as the drafting process continued I then realised that the best character to fill this role was Larry Erskine – the patriarch, and client. According to James Hillman (1996), this type of mentor is needed to see, lift, and change a man's burden – i.e., emotional paralysis or deep passivity, some apparent factor in either his success or failure to maintain normative masculine gender role (p. 163). Thus, by applying this notion I felt Carver’s emotional paralysis (following Lauren’s death) could be broken by the missing girl’s father – coaxing the younger man to realise his potential and utilise his skills to complete his quest and find Cassandra (see Mallon, p. 203). So, in an act of contrition, I let Carver relinquish his need for alcohol and Lauren, to resume his investigation. This also let me increase the guilt cast over the novel.

In this section I have articulated the role of guilt in the story, in my construction of Carver and through the relationship between Rebecca and Carver. Next, I explore how Carver’s masculinity is shaped through the psychology of his relationships and sexuality.

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Relationships and sexuality

To construct my novel, and build my protagonist’s sense of masculinity, I considered how psychoanalytical concepts may be negotiated and articulated in Carver's, as well as other male character's subject positions. Judith Kegan Gardiner (2013) explores male subjectivity through a discussion of the psychology of men’s masculinity, articulating earlier feminist works such as Nancy Chodorow’s influential book The Reproduction of Mothering (1978), which observed masculinity to be “psychologically inhibited and emotionally restrictive” (p. 113), as well as scholars writing about masculinity, such as Michael Kimmel (2008) and Robert Connell (2005). Gardiner formulates that male masculinity (as distinct from female masculinity), along with postmodern theories is “fluid and multiple in form, but they still relied on the same psychological hypotheses, which hypothesized that masculinity was derived defensively from boys’ rejection of their mother’s femininity” (p. 116).

In pursuing this course, I considered how I could use similar themes involving Carver’s interactions with the Erskine family. Here, I examined how the Erskine family could be composed and nuanced to challenge Carver’s masculinity, yet still fit within the conventions of the hardboiled detective and noir subgenres. Carver’s observations of Anne Erskine and Rebecca, and Simon’s (Cassandra’s adopted brother) relationships provided a lens for this purpose. In this respect, Chodorow’s (1978) ideas are applicable to Simon in that by turning away, yet remaining with his mother(s), he is independent and an individual, but also regressive and powerless (pp. 51-52, 108-112). Indeed, as an opaque character in his surveying of other characters, namely Rebecca and Cassandra, Simon could arguably be perceived as a subverted reflection of Carver.

Inasmuch as Erskine Falls is a hardboiled detective narrative of immorality, corruption, and investigation; it is also about a familial conflict. According to Lewis D. Moore (2000), “[t]his central social relation provides much of the tension in the modern novel and has remained an important theme in the hard-boiled detective novel since its inception” (p. 67). Thus, in returning to my novel, I realised that Carver’s problematic subjectivity and his difficulty in solving the case is complicated by unstable family situations. The novel offers a critical view of an empty, materialist society, but then focuses the narrative on the uncovering of hidden family secrets. As 304

Moore (2000) explains, “[t]his element of Freudian cultural determinism underscores the inability of the families to control and direct their lives” (p. 69). Therefore, perhaps unknowingly, Carver’s role is to also hold the family together until his quest (and the familial conflict) is resolved.

In exploring this thematic device, I found writing Rebecca’s character allowed me to experiment with ways to create instability within the Erskine family. In this respect, Rebecca is married to the patriarch Erskine, but is not the biological mother of siblings Cassandra and Simon. Her role within the family gave me opportunity to adjust degrees in her position as a femme fatale, being sexually desired and not forbidden to Carver, until I eventually settled on one. In exploring psychoanalysis and Freud’s Oedipal complex, I found such concepts could provide a structural device to allow Carver to desire Rebecca without seeking the demise or death of the patriarch, but through aligning himself “with the patriarchal system” (Krutnik, 1991, p. 77) under Erskine. Therefore, unlike the noir protagonists in Double Indemnity (1934), The Postman Always Rings Twice (1936) and Out of the Past (1947) who subvert the patriarchal order by desiring and/or sleeping with the older man’s wife, I felt Carver should be like Hardy in Open File (2008) and Archer in The Name is Archer (1976) and align himself with the father: Erskine. This, I realised, would allow Carver to follow the patriarchal order of ‘the father’ Erskine, with the older man asking ‘his son’ to continue his quest to find Cassandra:

‘... there are people who need you now, who need you back. Son, I need you to find my daughter. You said you were close. Do you think you can do it?’ (Mallon, p. 203).

Similarly, as the narrative and Carver’s investigation progressed, I looked at how he could form a proto-parental bond with Simon’s girlfriend, Sophie. This, I felt, could provide scope to help redeem himself over Lauren’s death, and help facilitate a bond in a bid to ultimately find Cassandra. This ‘bond’ is demonstrated with: “I ... held her hand. ‘So, where is she? It's alright; nothing will happen to you. Just tell me where she could be’” (Mallon, p. 238).

At about this time in writing the novel, I was particularly influenced by certain scenes from Roman Polanski’s neo-noir film, Chinatown (1974). During the film, protagonist private eye J.J. ‘Jake’ Gittes (Jack Nicholson) discovers (and struggles to

305 comprehend) that patriarch Noah Cross (John Huston) had slept with his daughter Evelyn Cross-Mulwray (Faye Dunaway), who had raised her daughter/sister in secret. However, once Evelyn dies (at the hands of a police officer), Cross wants (and eventually has) the girl (his daughter/granddaughter) for himself. Following this, I attempted to capture a similar link whereby Carver realises that Sophie is in fact Rebecca’s daughter, and also toyed with constructing a similar narrative sub-plot of incest, with Carver questioning Sophie and revealing that crooked property developer, Eddie Shaw, is her father. However, as this narrative device had already been used in Chinatown, I decided to leave Shaw’s position to both Rebecca and Sophie open, thus allowing Carver (and potentially the reader) to determine this role for themselves.

The gaze

As I pursued psychoanalytical notions further, I found the concept of the ‘gaze’ to not only be an immensely powerful trope, but also a thematic device by which characters can perceive and are perceived, particularly through Carver’s eyes as the protagonist. Yet, I wondered how this could be achieved. Kevin Goddard (2000) links Lacanian psychoanalytical theory, Feminist theory and Bakhtin’s linguistic theory to deconstruct gender difference and its resulting differential powers. He contends that: “masculine identity is inextricably linked, not only to the social image of femaleness, but also to the image of men that femaleness (in all its variety) projects” (p. 24). This idea then led me to consider how I could construct Carver’s subjectivity and sense of masculinity, and how his identity may become recognised/misrecognised or (re)negotiated through the subjectivity of each character’s projected image (Mulvey, 1975, p. 8). In this respect, I felt that by allowing Carver to see his reflection in the mirror (Mallon, p. 5); this enables him to recognise his real self rather than misrecognise his ideal self.

In Erskine Falls, the protagonist is a man, and so the reader is invited to see the world through a male gaze. Therefore, I was conscious of how both Carver (and the reader) would, for example, ‘gaze’ upon Lauren as she disrobes and stands naked before him (Mallon, pp. 9-10). Lauren too is equally pleasured by his eye. In this respect, Goddard (2000) observes that “the ‘subject’, who submits himself/herself to the gaze of the other, is able to use that submission as a form of power in itself. The submission is also not entirely as a ‘lesser’ submitting to a ‘superior’ – there is a sense

306 of pride of the body’s beauty” (p. 25). This notion I found particularly useful in how Cassandra could ‘submit’ herself to Rebecca’s gaze, and thus power, and transform into ‘Candy’ to perform sex. Similarly, critic Laura Mulvey (1975) asserts that “looking itself is a source of pleasure just as, in the reverse formation, there is pleasure in being looked at” (pp. 7-8). In this respect, the gaze allows a fluid exchange between actors whose position changes due to forces outside of their relationship.

However, as the novel developed, I recognised that the thematic device of the gaze became virtually panoptic; in that, every character is under every other’s gaze, controlling them for their own (not necessarily sexual) satisfaction. This, for example occurs through Shaw and Rebecca’s voyeurism of Cassandra and Mitch, as well as Carver’s gaze of the primal scene (Mallon, pp. 120-121); Simon’s ‘incestuous’ gaze of Cassandra (Mallon, pp. 162); Carver’s gaze of, as well as feeling of, Rebecca’s gaze from a photograph (Mallon, p. 233); and, his gaze of Cassandra’s nakedness at the bottom of the Falls (Mallon, pp. 239-240).

Thus, I found Goddard’s (2000) observation that “no gaze is a gaze in isolation, and every gaze is as much a gaze at the self as it is a gaze at another/an other” (p. 31), particularly interesting. This concept, I felt, assisted me to articulate how Carver’s masculine identity as protagonist could be explored through the gaze, and how the gaze provides a locus from which character(s) identity is cultivated and negotiated. This offered me scope to nuance characters such as Rebecca, Shaw and Simon so that each could hold a degree of power and control, which the gaze allows. For example, this is explored when Carver experiences vertigo descending the stairs as Rebecca watches him (p. 61); when both Rebecca and Shaw direct Candy and Mitch to perform sex acts (pp. 120-121); and, Simon’s footage of Cassandra in the bathroom (p. 162).

As my writing continued, I considered how Carver’s desire could be expressed when he sees Rebecca’s photograph – initially describing her features, and then later commenting on how he is fixed by her still image. In returning to my research, I noted this particular motif is present within Greek mythology, particularly through Perseus’ confrontation with the Medusa, in that, the sight of her face turns men to stone, petrifying them (Irwin, 2006, p. 144). I found this image useful as it allowed me to consider and then apply a similar sign, such as when Carver sees Rebecca’s photograph: “Strangely, I felt Rebecca’s smiling glare on my face and was struck

307 motionless, before peering at Sophie, who’d slowly raised her eyes toward me” (Mallon, p. 234). Thus, just as Perseus must evade Medusa's stare (and eventually kill her) to rescue Andromeda (Irwin, 2006, p. 144), Carver must evade Rebecca's hold to fulfil his quest and find Cassandra.

Through this theme of desire, I was particularly interested in those noir aesthetics which are also present in other sub-genres of literary and film texts such as gothic, melodrama, crime, etc. (Horsley, 2009, p. 229; Scaggs, 2005, p. 16; Schrader, 1996, p. 54; Orr 1997, p. 23). With Rebecca, I looked to Gothic works, such as Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca (1938) as a model upon which I could construct a woman “who, dominant even in their absence, stare haughty enigmas from their portraits” (Durgnat, 1996, p. 47). Indeed, I used the name, Rebecca, for my then-unnamed character, as an intertextual allusion to the character – adding richness to the narrative by evoking or alluding to the novel.

In my novel, deviant male sexuality both challenges and contains the narrator. To facilitate this, I attempted to make Carver feel a tension in observing his lover, Lauren, disrobe and stand naked in her lounge room (Mallon, pp. 9-10). This anxiety is perhaps more profound when Carver is confronted by the footage of the victim, Cassandra, on the SIM card (pp. 120-121), on Simon’s computer (again of Cassandra) (pp. 162), and at the fetish party (pp. 213-215). Through the first-person narration technique of focalisation – a lens through which the reader sees what the narrator observes “in characters and events in the narrative” (Abbott, 2002, p. 66), the reader, arguably like the cinema spectator, can visualise Carver's view or gaze. As Ogdon (1992) observes, “[w]hat we, as readers, ‘see’ in the hardboiled story is always filtered through the detective’s perception” (p. 74). Thus, while much of hardboiled detective fiction is devoted to action, more is still devoted to accounts of others. In pursuing this, I sought to position Carver (and potentially the reader) – viewing the video stream of Cassandra engaged in sex (Mallon pp. 120-121), like a cinema spectator, to be drawn into the image.

As I wrote, I initially examined Carver’s role as a viewer, but during the redrafting process, I began to realise that the reader too, as Mulvey (1975) notes, does “identify with the male protagonist” (p. 10). Thus, I aimed to capture Mulvey’s idea that “he (the reader) projects his look onto that of his screen (or literary) surrogate, so

308 that the power of the male protagonist as he controls events coincides with the active power of the erotic look, both giving a satisfying sense of omnipotence” (1975, p. 10). However, in writing, I realised that the male gaze becomes somewhat subverted as Carver (and the reader) is drawn into Cassandra's gaze as she dully stares into the camera (Mallon, p. 121) and, in doing so, is looking back at Carver (and the reader).

In broadening my research concerning the gaze, writer Anja Hirdman (2007) observes that female pleasure in pornography is “expressed through an often highly directed gaze that draws the reader or viewer into the image and into the pornographic scenes, the woman stares at the viewer reassuring him that the sexual events occur for him and him only” (p. 166). In constructing this scene, I was also influenced by works such as Crusader’s Cross (2006) and White Jazz (1992), in which young women are subject to male authoritarianism and perverted wants. In investigating the use of pornography and sexual imagery within detective fiction, I found that this thematic device is not unusual, with works such as Body Work (2010) by Sara Paretsky, The Cutting Room (2002) by Louise Welsh, The Big Sleep (1939) and An Unsuitable Job for a Woman (1972) by PD James, White Jazz (1992) and A Drink before the War (1994) by Dennis Lehane, exploring a motif of a corrupt society. Within Ellroy’s LA Quartet – White Jazz (1992), LA Confidential (1990), The Black Dahlia (1987) and The Big Nowhere (1988), pornography often appears with explicit imagery coupled with gratuitous violence (Mancall, 2006, pp. 6-7).

Indeed, while Jim Mancall (2006) observes that “pornography has a long, if minor, presence in the genre” (p. 5), I sought to attain a similar aesthetic to these texts in exploring not only reading (viewing) a confronting depiction, but also one that is disturbing and is juxtaposed to the aesthetic setting in which Carver views the imagery – the upper middle-class milieu of Lorne. In doing so, however, I began to realise that through Carver's discovery of images of Cassandra on Simon's computer (Mallon, pp. 93-94), and similarly with his position as spectator in the fetish scene within the underground cellars of the Grand Pacific Hotel (Mallon, pp. 213-215), I had moved towards notions of voyeurism.

As mentioned, Simon, Shaw and Rebecca, and to some degree Carver, all share a voyeuristic perversion towards Cassandra. Mulvey (1975) notes that in this type of voyeurism, a “fetishistic scopophilia, builds up the physical beauty of the object,

309 transforming it into something satisfying in itself” and that, it “can exist outside linear time as the erotic instinct is focussed on the look alone” (p. 11). In exploring this idea further, I aimed to illustrate how the use of technology – Carver’s USB stick loaded with pictures from Simon’s computer, and the SIM card – would allow the images to be viewed over again and at any time when desired. This device allowed me to give Carver opportunity to potentially watch the footage of Cassandra at other times – notably on his computer laptop in his car, as well as provide him evidence as part of his investigation.

In this section, I sought to articulate how Carver’s masculine subject position is moulded by his interactions with characters, notably through his psychosexual desires, and platonic relationships. I have also discussed how concepts such as the gaze and scopophilia provide Carver and other characters a lens through which to exert a sense of power, and how this notion of control could be applied in the narrative.

Conclusion

Writing Erskine Falls, I have found the issue of masculinity to have been amongst the most engaging facets of creating the novel. To create an authentic sense of Carver’s masculinities required consideration of Connell’s (2005) theories concerning gender structures as social practice, and Connell and Messerschmidt’s (2005) theoretical constructions of masculinity and gender to achieve a physical, psychological or emotional depth to the protagonist and other characters. Expressed within the protagonist’s gender position, through his thoughts, actions, and interactions with others, I have aimed to create a sense of verisimilitude through Carver’s place in domestic, work, and family spaces where masculine displays become problematic and unstable, echoing those found within hard-boiled detective and noir fiction, and film noir.

During this process, and as I broadened my reading within the crime fiction genre, I found that I was able to negotiate and apply constructive elements to build my novel. Therefore, in developing the protagonist, I did not write Carver to be heroic, but rather as a flawed hero – an ambiguous character (Borde & Chaumeton, 1996, p. 22) and compromised figure who, to a degree, restores order and is “motivated by his own personal code of honour” (Scaggs, 2005, p. 62) in a noir world. Thus, I discovered that

310 not only had the position of the protagonist developed, but I had also developed as a writer. Additionally, this form of practice-led research enabled me to not only create a complex protagonist and narrative, but also deepened my confidence and creativity in my authorship abilities.

This method allowed me to expand from Carver’s masculine subject position to make sense of his place in the world through observation and voice. Therefore, the next chapter: Voice, examines Carver’s position as the protagonist; his subjectivity as the narrator-investigator; and, the nature of his hardboiled voice within a contemporary noir world.

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Chapter 3: Voice

In the first chapter of the exegesis, Genre, I introduced my novel Erskine Falls and its protagonist, Frank Carver PI, and discussed its place as a text within the tradition of the crime fiction subgenres of hardboiled detective and noir literature. In the second chapter: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I discussed the conceptual framework of masculinity and how such theoretical constructions have developed Carver’s masculine subjectivity and role in a post-industrial landscape, and his contemporary noir world. This chapter, Voice, further discusses the position of Carver as the protagonist; his subjectivity as the narrator-investigator; and, the nature of his hardboiled voice within a noir world.

In this section, I examine how verisimilitude is expressed, not only in the PI protagonist Carver and his dialogue and interactions with others but also through the descriptions of his world. In this respect, I investigate the nature of voice; how Carver evokes both a hardboiled and a noir voice; and, how these tropes are created through the protagonist’s sense of masculinity and personality, and how these resonate with the reader.

Establishing verisimilitude

The process of establishing the protagonist’s voice began by evaluating his name. Early in formulating the lead character, I felt I had already created a name for my protagonist, Frank Miller, from a previous story that I had been developing. However, I soon realised that the protagonist’s name – Frank Miller – needed to be changed, as it was the same name as the well-known graphic novelist. In order to find a more original moniker, I looked for a name that, as critic Bethany Ogdon (1992) describes, echoed “the tough, unsentimental language and attitude” (p. 74) of traditional hardboiled and noir texts such as Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon (1930), The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain (1934), and Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939). I did this in order to create an intertextual allusion to earlier hardboiled protagonists through the lead character. Thus, I retained the name Frank, and changed the surname to Carver, borrowing also from the surname of the writer, Raymond

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Carver. The name also evoked similarity to the protagonist (Jack) Carter in Ted Lewis’ 1970 novel Jack’s Return Home, later adapted as the film, Get Carter (1971). Given these, I felt the name ‘Frank Carver’ signalled nostalgia or sentimentality, while also sustaining a linguistic hardness. This allowed me to emphasise the age gap and different cultural competencies between Frank and other characters when needed, such as in the scene below when Sophie asks him over dinner:

‘I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t Frank a bit of an old name?’ she said. A sly grin slid across my face. ‘I don’t know, is it? My parents were big Sinatra fans– ’ ‘Who?’ she said blankly, and looked at Anne (Mallon, p. 109).

I also felt that the name Carver offered a hard-edged frame to the protagonist and suggested the aesthetic of a blade or knife. I found that this shift was the catalyst to not only re-examine the protagonist and his voice (and potentially other characters) that I had envisaged, but also to re-focus my voice as a writer creating hardboiled detective fiction set in a contemporary noir world.

Creating the narrative voice

While trying to establish a sense of authenticity of voice for the character, I researched how the concept of voice came to evolve. Modernism is often seen as key to the birth of voice as a literary notion and I was interested in how modernism’s articulation of a consciousness of despair, disorder, and anarchy, through “the intellectual conventions of plight, alienation, and nihilism” (Bradbury & McFarlane, 1985, pp. 41-42) can be used to enrich my novel. Thus, in an attempt to create a voice for my protagonist, and a sense of realism for the reader, I sought to employ the Modernist technique of interior monologue to passages of free direct discourse. This form, as critic David Herman (2011) notes, “though stripped of quotation marks and tag phrases such as ‘she reflected’ or ‘he wondered’ can be assumed to correspond to or quote the unexpressed thoughts of a character” (p. 247). Similarly, Pericles Lewis (2007) and Childs (2008) notes that interior monologue, initially developed by writers such as Fyodor Dostoevsky, Henry James and Gustave Flaubert and, according to Lewis (2007) attempts to describe “the experience of reality” (p. 158) as lived by the individual.

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Eschewing the omniscient narrator, writers such as James Joyce, Dorothy Richardson, Virginia Woolf, William Faulkner, and Ernest Hemingway tilted the balance toward what scholar Ian Watt (1972) describes as a “realism of presentation; in that, the novel’s realism does not reside in the kind of life it presents, but in the way it presents it” (p. 215), articulating not necessarily how life is, but how life is experienced, and “what it feels like to be alive” (Lewis, 2007, p. 158), thus, providing a voice that rang true. Narratologist H. Porter Abbott (2002) explores the concept of voice initially with the definition that “[v]oice in narration is a question of who it is we ‘hear’ doing the narrating” (p. 64). Similarly, critic Laurie Henry (1995) notes “voice is synonymous with persona, the characteristics of speech and thought patterns of any first-person narrator” (p. 309). In this respect, rather than offering the reader a third- person narrative, which arguably distances the main character and the reader, I sought to provide a vision through the first-person of a somewhat world-weary protagonist. This, I felt would give Carver an experiential voice which is reflective of his world and which could resonate with the reader. I attempted to achieve this with lines such as: “The .38 Special lay there next to the small bottle of Teachers like a pair of suicidal twins” (Mallon, p. 36); and, “Silence filled the air; only the television kept blurting voices and laughter like some confined lunatic in the corner of the room” (p. 112). These examples, and others in the novel, I feel, provide a window into Carver’s personality, but also his cynicism and view of his world. While the plot, setting and other devices are important to a narrative, critic Johnny Payne (1995) suggests that voice more than any other story element “seduces the reader” (p. 1). With this in mind, I discovered that as the process of writing the novel progressed, I needed to create a protagonist of greater depth and one whose voice was less generic than the one that I initially envisioned. Clearly, this important element needed fine tuning in the novel. Therefore, in creating the protagonist I needed to examine who he was; not only through his tone and diction, but how his voice is reflected through his vision of the world.

Tough, terse and cynical: Carver’s hardboiled voice

Once the protagonist's name and first-person point of view had been decided upon, I then sought to explore how Carver could narrate the story. This section will consider how the cynical streetwise voice, synonymous with hardboiled detective and noir

314 fiction, and film noir, is expressed within the PI protagonist Carver’s dialogue with others, but also through the descriptions of his world. Critic Scott Christianson (1989) notes that the private detective or investigator’s use of hardboiled language, “is a combination of taciturnity and loquaciousness” (p. 151). Indeed, as the narrator the protagonist constantly talks – a tough talk that is quite terse, colloquial and usually vulgar (p. 156), with a stylistic influence from the hardboiled school of writers from the 1930s.

As filmmaker and critic Paul Schrader (1996) notes, authors such as Hemingway, Hammett, Chandler, Cain, and Horace McCoy, “created the tough, cynical way of acting and thinking which separated one from the world of everyday emotions – romanticism with a protective shell” (p. 56). These writers and others, had their roots in pulp fiction, such as Black Mask magazine, or journalism, weaving action-based (and often violent) narratives with fast-paced dialogue, and protagonists living out a “narcissistic, defeatist code” (Schrader, 1996, p. 56). Thus, in considering how Carver could narrate the story, I initially consulted a variety of hardboiled crime stories such as Grifter’s Game (2004) by Lawrence Block, Jim Thompson's Case of the Catalogue Clue (1948), and James Lee Burke’s The Neon Rain (1987).

Within these texts, amongst others, I found first-person narratives that exposed me to the protagonist’s thoughts, faults, desires, etc., enlivening the text with a troubled or menacing undertone. Christianson (1989) contends that through the use of colloquialisms, similes and emotive metaphors writers of the hardboiled subgenre express their understanding and view of society, project their and their protagonists’ independence, and assert “language as power” (p. 151). In attempting to find my protagonist’s persona and hardboiled voice, I initially engaged in a series of writerly voice exercises in which Carver describes himself, other characters, objects and places. For example, this I sought to demonstrate in Carver’s interactions with his lover, Lauren: “I left her there on the bed to finish my cigarette and took a shower. Her words echoed in my head: ‘she doesn’t know, does she?’” (Mallon, p. 4). Inevitably, however, this just resulted in a loose first-person narrative littered with expletives. While this reliance on expletives could be seen as echoing the hardboiled form's tendency towards pungent language (Symons, 1972, p. 135), it felt hollow, caricatured and simplistic. Also, I reflected on how the use of explicit language and colloquialism of earlier times may be not tenable for today’s readers. Indeed, it did not, as I had 315 hoped, convey within the central framework of masculinity a sense of a cynical, tough- talking and street-wise persona and diction that is typical of the hardboiled voice (McCann, 2010, p. 42). And, in some passages of monologue and dialogue, I found that the explicit language was out of context with the atmosphere I wanted to evoke. For example, in a scene in which Lauren discovers a photograph of missing girl, Cassandra, and believes Carver is engaged in an affair, the dialogue was littered with expletives. However, as my reading expanded, I discovered a number of texts in the hardboiled detective sub-genre, such as James Sallis’ The Long-Legged Fly (2012), Meagan Abbott’s Die a Little (2005), and Marele Day’s The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender (1988), that did not rely, or at least relied less, on vulgarities to heighten tension or emotive sensibilities. This is demonstrated in reworking the passage, as well as some others in the novel:

Lauren rushed into the bathroom. ‘This photo, who is it?’ she snarled, frantically waving the photograph of Cassandra in her hand. Her voice was jittery and high. ‘Did you take this photo? What’s her name? You haven’t been screwing her, have you?’ I opened the shower door, letting the heat out, and the cold in. ‘What’re you raving on about?’ I said, wiping water from my face (Mallon, p. 81).

Here, I found, that by reducing the number of expletives I was able to maintain the tone and sensibility, and thus achieve the same effect. As discussed, I discovered that authors such as Day, Sallis, and Abbott had instead opened a window into their protagonist's personal lives; and, rather than merely using explicit or vulgar language to express sentiment, captured emotional or psychological notions about themselves or other characters. Therefore, unlike some traditional hardboiled detective writers such as Hammett, Chandler and Ross MacDonald, these authors allowed the reader into the domestic space of the protagonist, providing a view into the world of the investigator outside of the realm of their mode of employment. This aspect of domesticity I found particularly interesting and sought to pursue. This is discussed in greater detail in the final chapter: Place.

As the writing of my novel progressed, and my reading broadened, I found that the voice of my protagonist as well as my voice as a writer of hardboiled detective fiction gained in confidence. For example, sentences such as “A woman in her seventies, standing in a floral dressing gown and hair curlers, looked at me and gave

316 me a compassionate smile” became “[s]omebody’s granny, in a floral dressing gown and curlers, eyeballed me with a sympathetic grin” (Mallon, p. 84). In this sense, I felt that I was beginning to develop my relationship with the protagonist and create a character of colour and depth. Thus, through a process of redrafting, I found Carver’s language had developed to be terse, and less prosaic. After reading works such as The Big Sleep (1939), The Neon Rain (1987), and particularly James Ellroy’s White Jazz (1993), I felt that my use of vernacular, colloquialisms and similes, as illustrated in earlier chapters, had confidently developed. For example, similes such as, “I could tell it was him – Shaw has the face of a Doberman with a Chihuahua's yap, a real queer voice” (Mallon, p. 224) and, “Cops were a rarity in Lorne, like a cheap sandwich” (Mallon, p. 176). I felt that reading White Jazz (1993) had an enormous effect on my prose as the voice of the first-person narrator seemed to assume a harder, more streetwise tone. With this in mind, I must consider what it was about Ellroy’s book that spurred a harder voice.

On reflection, I found Ellroy’s style of writing to be far more stripped back and certainly less literary than Burke’s, and even that of Chandler’s; it demonstrated a truncated, journalistic quality – hitting the reader like machine gun fire. For example: “Dinner: club soda, pretzels. Easy eyeball work: Glenda talked, Rock sulked. The reporters ignored him – snore city” (Ellroy, 1993, p. 62). Critic Paul Duncan (2012), in an interview with Ellroy, observed that the writer’s style had a “rhythm and cadence of words and speech” (p. 68). Ellroy described his writing style in White Jazz (1993) as a “frenetic first-person fever dream” with a “constant staccato be-bop riff style” (Duncan, 2012, p. 68). Inspired by this mode, I began to explore my writerly choices, reassessing my style – reworking verbs to have more impact and punch, and pushing a sharper tone into my sentences through curter diction and shorter words. For example, rather than using “I stubbed out the cigarette”, I had Carver remark “I killed the smoke” (Mallon, p. 139). And while I still used explicit language to express an emotive response, I began to use such words selectively, illustrating a position, dilemma, or situation pertinent to the scene. For example, in the passage below, Carver is informed by police detective Lane that Carver’s deceased lover had not stolen drugs from the hospital she works:

‘When did you know about this?’ I said. ‘A couple of days ago,’ he said. 317

‘A couple of days ago, and now you tell me? SHE’S FUCKING DEAD!’ Lane stepped back, and started pacing (Mallon, p. 194).

The above passage, while retaining one expletive, I felt, maintains a sentiment and emotive quality. Here, Carver’s anguish at not being informed of Lauren’s innocence eventually turns to guilt, believing he could have prevented Lauren from taking her life. However due to the nature of his contemporary noir world, this was not to be.

As in the typical modernist novel, characters’ personalities are conveyed more through dialogue than through action or description. In this respect, scholar Eric Rawson (2011) notes how Chandler's characters often denote a laconic perceptivity or self-awareness; yet if anyone stopped talking, characters would lack meaning, and the understanding that Marlowe (and the reader) accumulated would disappear: “Silence means the end of knowing. More important perhaps, the action itself is accomplished primarily through talking” (p. 35). In returning to my novel, I sought to apply similar techniques, and in doing so, this allowed me to reflect on and look at Carver's perceptions of Geelong's economic and aesthetic restructuring, which verge on nihilistic. Indeed, the characters who populate the hardboiled social environment, as Ogdon (1992) observes, are included within its reality in that its readers recognise and authenticate its veracity as “hardboiled language becomes a transparent transmitter of documentary evidence” (p. 75). To convey this sentiment, I had Carver comment on the demise of the city’s historic heart:

Big money poured into town, making it more like a Melbourne beach suburb. The city’s old bluestone laneways and sandstone terraces were getting lost in the glitz. The once busy Cunningham pier now had a large, up-market restaurant built on the end. The old wooden Yarra Street pier had disappeared years ago. I didn’t remember what it was like. I hated that (Mallon, p. 8).

As discussed, to create an authentic hardboiled voice for Carver not only required an examination of other writers, their protagonists, and scholarly works, but also a decision about how cynical and acerbic I wanted Carver's narration of his world to be. Expressed in the PI protagonist's descriptions and dialogue with others, I aimed to create verisimilitude through Carver's tone and diction in his experiences and

318 observations while echoing those found within hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction. I took on board the hardboiled tongue as tough, colloquial, and usually vulgar (Christianson, 1989, p. 156), with an “unsentimental language and attitude” (Ogdon, 1992, p. 74). Though Erskine Falls is narrated with a hardboiled voice, the narrative is also situated in a noir world; therefore, the reader is witness to Carver's brooding sentiments and loner personality, as he negotiates other characters and his sense of self.

‘I felt darkness surround me’: Carver’s noir voice

The addition of noir sentiment to the hardboiled formula invariably evokes a sense of a sinister world or an inevitably problematic atmosphere. In this respect, I posed a set of questions for inquiry – how dark do I make the protagonist’s world? How can I communicate this through voice? In attempting to answer such questions, I continued to examine a combination of literary techniques, thematic devices, and aesthetics, exploring other writers’ work and critical material. The examples that I considered included Cornell Woolrich, James M. Cain, Dorothy B. Hughes, and Howard Browne. Horsley (2009) observes a common element in these writers’ works, notably themes of despair and their use of irony and subjective narration (p. 3), and extreme guilt, loneliness and anxiety. These works projected an extremely dark vision of the world, featuring themes such as sex and violent death, which Scaggs argues is typical of noir narratives (Scaggs, 2005, p. 110). Literary scholar Lee Horsley (2009) contends that this darkness and these themes are quite deliberate, as they are a “natural expression in a popular genre engaged in undermining the essentially optimistic thrust of other popular forms, such as detective and adventure stories” (p. 3).

This sense of despair, isolation and urban decay can be seen to have emulated from dark works such as Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1902) and Secret Agent (1907) and T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922), works that have arguably shaped literary noir more than their contemporaries (Horsley, 2009, p. 3; Scaggs, 2005, p. 70). These texts, as Horsley (2009) observes, go some way towards defining the thematic sensibilities and narrative structures of literary noir (p. 4) as found in later works by such writers as Woolrich, Cain, Hughes, and Brown, with their perceptions of irony, guilt, and vulnerable characters, non-linear structure, and inconclusive endings. It seemed, then, that I had permission to make my novel’s work as dark as I liked, or as bleak as it needed to be. 319

How then could I translate these elements into the story and world of Carver? One approach would have been for Carver to demonstrate confusion and a sense of being overwhelmed by what he has seen in a way that puts him at a distance from others. If I had him express an inability to process the everyday due to his preoccupation with trying to solve the crime and also due to a sense of being haunted by the responsibility of his role, this could convey the anxiety and disjointedness of his world. An example of this was when Carver tried to clear his head by inserting himself into the ordinariness of the everyday, but fails: “My head flittered between Lauren, Cassandra, and the girl found dead in the hostel. I felt surrounded by loss. The walk led me through Westfield plaza. The place was crowded, but I felt alone amongst the chatter” (Mallon, p. 130); and, “I opened my eyes and stared at my hands that gripped the bottle and the gun. Tears welled in my eyes – loss surrounded me. My decisions had led to the deaths of two people” (Mallon, p. 190). Indeed, this additional existential element allowed me to emphasise Carver’s feelings of anxiety and alienation, capturing the sense of the protagonist being unable to transcend his world.

Critic Susanna Lee (2003) observes that “[s]uch is the contradiction embodied in the hardboiled: the detective stands both within and outside the contamination of the world around him” (pp. 44-45). In returning to my writing, I realised that I equally needed the protagonist’s voice to evoke the dark mood found within similar texts such as The Midnight Promise (2012) by Zane Lovitt, The Neon Rain (1987) by James Lee Burke, Ride the Pink Horse (1958) by Dorothy B. Hughes, and Man in the Dark (1953) by Howard Browne, in that I felt that Carver’s voice should display feelings of threat, anxiety, and pessimism (Horsley, 2009, p. 8; Knight, 1980, p. 154) as found in noir crime fiction. However, as I wrote, the voice felt nondescript and flat. Sample statements by the protagonist that I had originally intended to sound emotional or psychological such as “I felt alone”, still didn’t capture or represent the character that I envisioned and heard in my mind.

This dilemma made it clear to me that a noir narrator is not the same as a hardboiled narrator. Therefore, to emphasise the suspense, anxiety and guilt (Horsley, 2009, p. 11) prevalent in the noir protagonist, I experimented with using Carver's descriptions and observations as a way of presenting his uncertainty about the world. This allowed me to conflate the subgenres of hardboiled and noir in a technique that crossed the line from hardboiled language and vernacular into existential noir themes 320 of cynicism and alienation. An example of this blurring or negotiating a position between the hardboiled and noir voice spectrum is evoked in Carver’s perceptions of Moorabool Street in Geelong:

The car took me up along Yarra, then right into Malop Street, through the congestion of traffic and shoppers looking for an over-heated bargain, before making a sharp left into Moorabool. Lined with tall palms, the street looked like a poor relative from Surfers Paradise. The council’s idea to beautify the place reeked of hypocrisy – like bullshit in a hot wind. The top of the trees swayed slightly in the breeze, while on the street – among the cigarette butts, chewed-up gum and syringes – shit would go down – violence in the day, sex attacks at night, all under the dim city’s lights (Mallon, p. 13).

With this passage, along with some other scenes in the text I sought to achieve a sense of cynical nihilism, a typical noir trope that could be described, according to critic Raymond Durgnat (1996), as a form of social criticism (p. 40). Here, I felt that rather than have Carver merely see the landscape, I needed him to articulate the city’s topography and its social layers that the public may not recognise. Phrases such as “shoppers looking for an over-heated bargain”; “lined with tall palm trees, the street looked like a poor relative from Surfers Paradise”; and, “all under the dim city’s lights” (p. 13) express a measure of cynicism about the value of contemporary society and communal bonding, which informs the novel as a text and, as such, is one of the prominent characteristics of hardboiled and the ‘tough’ noir fiction.

Indeed, as Ogdon (1992) notes, though “the term ‘hardboiled’ more accurately describes a specific way of speaking and seeing than it does straightforward formulaic criteria” (p.71), it typifies the way hardboiled protagonists such as Carver, an archetypal private detective, lives his life. As critic Sean McCann (2010) observes:

the core of the hardboiled crime story (is) of the failures of the legal and social order to protect decent people from elite predation and criminal abuse, and of the detective hero’s pained awareness of his limited ability to redress that injustice (p. 56).

With this in mind, I attempted to give Carver a cynical view of consumerism and commercialisation of the coastal town of Lorne:

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[t]he hustle of tourists sucking-up overpriced trinkets and expensive knock-offs, and locals trying to get their kids home from school along the choked footpath. Wooden telephone poles and cypress trees lined the street in front of the neon-caked shops and cafes; their shiny, tinsel surfaces gave me a headache (Mallon, p. 92).

These types of observations of the worn and over-developed side of Lorne, I felt, allowed Carver to offer a social critique of the environment, and to project a persona of a man who is uncomfortable and alienated in his world. As discussed in the previous chapter: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I sought to position the protagonist in sites, particularly domestic spaces, where his sense of masculine subjectivity is negotiated through his interactions and relationships. Indeed, as depicted above and in some other scenes in the text, I wanted to capture a sense of alienation, anxiety, and loneliness (Horsley, 2009, p. 71) within the protagonist as he negotiates unfamiliar spaces. In developing this quality, I attempted to attain this existential voice, with phrases such as “I felt darkness surround me”; “… attacked my senses”; and, “my hands appeared to age before my eyes” (Mallon, p. 11). In pursing this idea, I discovered that we (the reader), as critic Christopher Orr (2000) observes, see the protagonist narrator to be a victim of forces beyond their control regardless of how the protagonist-narrator and other characters perceive themselves (Horsley, 2009, p. 69; Orr, 2000, p. 49). This existential position I found particularly interesting, and a convention that I sought to explore within the protagonist-narrator’s voice, as well as through other characters, such as Lauren and Rebecca, as it offered a sense of uncertainty within the narrative.

I began to experiment with creating this sense of uncertainty in three ways, all of which would ideally work together to strengthen Carver’s voice. The first way, I found, was to play with first person narration as a way to directly share with the reader the protagonist’s feelings of anxiety and tense observation about the world. Secondly, I gave Carver a tendency towards introspection as a device to showcase his existential isolation. Thirdly, I imbued Carver with a sense of reasonably constant confusion to communicate to the reader that his world was uncertain and shifting. The need to add or heighten the sense of emptiness, loneliness, loss (Porfirio, 1996, p. 81) in Carver’s and others’ voices led me to consider how I could emphasise a sense of the alienated voice through the novel. Scholars note that the noir world conjures a sense of tension

322 and ambiguity that is fed by anxiety, pessimism, nihilism (Porfirio, 1996, p. 81), crime, deceit, and victimisation (Rubin, 1999, p. 91), violence, and ultimately death (Borde & Chaumeton, 1996, p. 19). Thus, I sought to express how these tropes and others such as loss, loneliness (Porfirio, 1996, p. 85) and self-doubt and guilt (Knight, 2010, p. 121) are constructed within the protagonist and other characters.

“I’m Carver”: a first-person narrative

Given the importance of what scholar Carl Malmgren (2001) describes as the “speaking subject” (p. 106), as my writing progressed, I became influenced by the first-person narration of writers such as Chandler, Burke, Ellroy, Sallis, and Day. Therefore, in this section, I consider how the reader is positioned to hear the voice of the protagonist Carver, and see the action through his eyes. Carver, as a first-person narrator, can present a voice of experiential depth – a voice that provides a form of characterisation and language. Therefore, privileging the first-person narrator in hardboiled detective and noir fiction, I discovered, offers a degree of “monological control” (Scaggs, 2009, p. 132) to the story, which is often hindered by a lack of insight, or of local knowledge and capability, as usually demonstrated by the investigator (Scaggs, 2009, p. 132; Willett, 1992). Thus, while the individuality and autonomy of the private (I) is demonstrated through the first-person narration, the PI’s exercise of power through language is limited as the narrative represents the process of making meaning as a struggle (Christianson, 1989, p. 155).

This dialogical discourse is further explored through theorist Mikhail Bakhtin’s (1981) concept of heteroglossia – “another’s speech in another’s language, serving to express authorial intentions but in a refracted way” (p. 324). In broadening my reading, and further developing technique, I discovered that in the drafting process there came to be a combination of existing statements or speech-genres constructed in the text. In this respect, theorist Andrew Robinson (2011) observes that novels are established from a variety of voices and forms, and creatively developed and shaped in a particular way. So, as my writing developed, I noticed there came to be a fusing of elements of a variety of writers’ voices and styles. This I found beneficial as it allowed me to play with elements until I felt comfortable with a voice that I could use to construct the novel.

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In my reading of various hardboiled detective and noir crime literature, I discovered that both McCann (2010, p. 54) and Stephen Knight (1988, p. 81) observe that a writer such as Chandler, divides his protagonist’s voice into two personae – an argumentative style in which Marlowe verbally tackles antagonists, “displaying his sangfroid while forcing his opponent’s composure to crack” (McCann, 2010, p. 54); and – an interior monologue allowing Marlowe to describe his observations and experiences to the reader (McCann, 2010, p. 54). Indeed, Knight (1988) contends that this divided voice “creates a double man” (p. 81) and, this double identity is reflected in other ways in Chandler’s novels.

In pursuing this motif further, I discovered that critics are frequently drawn to the symbolic connotations of the private eye term. Critic and scholar Bran Nicol (2013) notes that the detective is presented as a “private ‘I’ (who) is the independent, free individual engaged in an existential quest, or as private eye, the man who looks boldly at things most of us would not dare to” (p. 11). Like Marlowe and similar private eyes since, I sought to develop Carver’s first-person narration in order to make him the ideological and narrative centre of the text; that is, it is through his social lens the world is viewed, a centre that is fundamentally divided by Carver’s two distinct voices. As theorist Fredric Jameson (1983) notes,

[t]he narrator’s voice-over works in counterpoint to the things seen, heightening them subjectively through his own reactions to them, through the poetry his comparisons lend them, and letting them fall back again into their sordid, drab reality through the deadpan humour which disavows what it just maintained (p. 141).

In this respect, Carver’s first-person narration provides the protagonist a two- sided face: the experiential/observational private investigator that ascertains clues through knowledge and directly questions other characters in a tough, street-wise demeanour; and, the reflective/sensitive, self-questioning loner who confides his state of being through sharing personal matters and problems in solving the case with the reader.

Introspection and existential isolation

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Carver’s experiential observations are, for example, displayed in the hostel room where the girl had supposedly overdosed: “If the girl had Od’d it looked like she’d done it with a tyre lever” (Mallon, p. 76); while his reflective persona is exposed through his sense of anxiety and guilt over his former partner’s death:

My hand had slipped into my pocket and flicked the Zippo lid. My breathing quickened, and pulse climbed. Jesus, the fucker’s been dead for a year, and he’s still killing me (Mallon, p. 124).

As the reader, along with the protagonist, begins to solve the case, the narrative becomes a ‘writerly’ text. According to theorist Roland Barthes (1975) the writerly text makes “the reader no longer a consumer, but a producer of the text” (p. 4). Thus, like similar hardboiled detective novels, Erskine Falls could be identified as a writerly text. Indeed, writer and scholar John Scaggs (2005) notes that hardboiled detective novels encourage the reader to enter into the production of meaning (p. 74); that is, unlike mystery or classic crime fiction in which narrative closure is achieved, the crime is solved and the culprit caught. In hardboiled detective fiction, however, the PI achieves a limited understanding and a pyrrhic victory (Grella, 1988, p. 116; Scaggs, 2005, p. 75). The investigator’s limited success is also compounded by the first-person narrative of the divided private eye character, which results in a “multivalent text” (Scaggs, 2005, p. 75) that challenge attempts to bring order and closure (Willet, 1992). In pursuing this course, I sought for Carver’s knowledge of the investigation to not only be derived from his partial understanding, but also from his sense of alienation in Lorne. To demonstrate this, I attempted to explore this existential isolation in the following example:

In further developing this notion, I discovered that the hardboiled detective novel, as Scaggs (2005) observes, “can be identified as a writerly text, whose gaps and fissures encourage the reader to enter into the production of meaning” (p. 75). Indeed, the writerly text is plural and diffuse with an abundance of signifiers, weaving codes and fragments of codes, through which the reader derives meaning (Eagleton, 2011, p.

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119; Selden & Widdowson, 1993, p. 134). So, in returning to the novel, and as I discuss in the next chapter: Place, I attempted to provide both Carver and the reader meaning from such symbols and codes and offer some insight into the world of the protagonist’s investigation.

Like Chandler, Macdonald and similar writers, I aimed to provide a dichotomy in my protagonist’s voice; that is: a tough, cynical exterior (seen through Carver’s observations and interactions with others) and, a reflective interior (heard within his personal feelings, his sense of self and place in the world). Again, like Chandler and others, I sought to enrich Carver's divided voice with imagery – especially similes. However, I found that as the plot and narrative of Erskine Falls progressed, the use of interior monologue – Carver describing his feelings and thoughts about the investigation, himself, and other characters – had perhaps not received a similar amount of attention as other facets of the novel. With this in mind, I began to reflect upon how Carver would assess situations, places and other characters, and thus provide a richer interior monologue to describe and ascertain his sense of self. Indeed, while Hammet’s The Maltese Falcon (1930) was initially influential in the construction of Erskine Falls and its protagonist Carver, Hammett’s novel did not use the first-person narrative to demonstrate the hero’s lonely identity, as I attempted to do. Rather, as Knight (2010) notes, Hammett conveyed interpretations “through a Hemingway-esque loading” narrated in the third-person with notions about how a character works and feels (p. 115), for example:

Spade’s face was yellow-white now. His mouth smiled and there were smile-wrinkles around his glittering eyes. His voice was soft, gentle. He said: ‘I’m going to send you over. The chances are you’ll get off with life. That means you’ll be out again in twenty years. You’re an angel. I’ll wait for you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If they hang you I’ll always remember you’ (Hammett, 1930 p. 207).

While I recognised Hammett’s sentiment, I felt that my protagonist should take the reader within him, to lead and be with the reader in his noir world. Therefore, in constructing a first-person narrative, I sought to provide a relationship between the reader and the protagonist, and thus a writerly bond that perhaps allows the reader to share the protagonist’s view. As Malmgren (2001) notes, “[t]his narrational situation

326 secures the reader’s interest in the detective; first-person narration necessarily entails a degree of identification between reader and protagonist” (pp. 106-107).

In pursuing this course, theorist Tzvetan Todorov (1977) suggests that in hardboiled detective fiction the need to preserve the element of mystery/suspense and to reinforce the link between the narrator/protagonist and the reader employs a narrative situation in which “the narrative coincides with the action” (p. 47). In such texts, the first person is usually narrated, not recounted; and, “the act of enunciation is contemporaneous with the unfolding action” (Malmgren, 2001, 107). In recognising this trope, I considered ways in which I could apply this approach in Erskine Falls because I felt I needed the reader to be a participant in the narrative as much as the narrator. So, I focussed on ensuring Carver’s first-person experiential/observational narration did not spoil the element of mystery because, as John Cawelti (1976) observes, “the hard-boiled detective is usually as befuddled as the reader until the end of the story” (p. 83). To achieve this, I ensured that everything happens in the present of the ongoing investigation. However, I did apply some flashbacks: first, in which Carver recalls meeting his deceased colleague Lyle Bowman; second, recalling meeting his deceased lover, Lauren; and finally, when Carver locates Cassandra at the Falls. These flashbacks I felt would allow a sense of anxiety within the protagonist to be achieved, and provide the reader space to hear Carver's existential thoughts.

The restricted approach of using occasional flashbacks, I found, not only adds to the narrative suspense, but could potentially raise the reader’s concern for the (ambiguous) fate of Carver’s fragile identity. In pursuing this idea, I discovered that for the reader “prospection takes the place of retrospection” (Todorov, 1977, p. 47). Therefore, the reader’s investment in the narrative of Erskine Falls is quite different from that in mystery fiction or classical detective fiction in that “whereas curiosity drives the mystery fiction, suspense propels the detective story" (Malmgren, 2001, p. 107). Indeed, the sense of suspense from the protagonist's entanglement in threatening events (Horsley, 2009, p. 8), is, along with a journey into Carver's (fragile) identity, among the elements I sought to explore.

This led me to wonder what the effect might be if I increased his sense of confusion with the world around him. Would this, I wonder, lead to a stronger sense of

327 voice through giving him more opportunities to comment on the society around him and his place in it.

I began with experimenting with his perceived role of victim of (occasionally his own) circumstance, and of society. This notion of disorientation is demonstrated in the following example:

The distant look in her eyes said more about her than what she was telling me. I felt darkness surround me as I peered for my car among the several parked. Another camera was fixed to the concrete ceiling. It kept an eye on the cars and whoever entered the car park, including me – surveying my every move. The incessant buzz and flicker of a faulty fluorescent tube and stale exhaust fumes attacked my senses, itching through my nervous system until I reached the car (Mallon, p. 11).

In this example, I endeavoured to capture Carver’s confused state of mind after he had visited his lover, Lauren, and discovered that she had been using prescription drugs for depression and anxiety; this example also demonstrates Carver's failings in being unable to acknowledge Lauren's sense of alienation and misery following her husband's death.

As a technique, the first-person narration provides a focalisation – a lens through which the reader sees what the narrator observes “in characters and events in the narrative” (Abbott, 2002, p. 66). To develop this, I aimed for the reader, for example, to visualize Carver’s view of the Erskine Real Estate agency in Lorne:

Upon returning to my research, I noticed that while much of hardboiled detective fiction is devoted to action, more still is devoted to accounts of others. As Ogdon (1992) observes, what the reader sees is often through the detective’s observations and perception (p. 74). In this respect, the reader is positioned to ‘hear’ the voice of the protagonist Carver, and ‘see’ the action through his eyes. Interestingly, it was Black Mask magazine writer and hardboiled-detective fiction pioneer Carroll John Daly who “emphasized his hero’s insubordinate character by making him a first- 328 person narrator who addresses the reader in sardonic vernacular” (McCann, 2010, p. 45). Thus, the noir crime (and often hardboiled detective) narrative frequently focuses through the lens of a bemused or disingenuous character; who, in doing so, questions his judgements as well as society (Horsley, 2009, p. 9). So, while McCann (2010) notes that “[t]he detective, who speaks the vernacular of the working-class city, is also its champion” (p. 47), I, however, wanted Carver, in his observations, and particularly his exchanges with others, to be neither refined nor particularly working class. Indeed, I considered that through his use of vernacular he potentially could be from a rural or English-speaking migrant background, i.e., from England or New Zealand, which may help articulate his particular diction and urbane quality, but could also further demonstrate his sense of alienation.

Through his urbane manner, I looked to Carver to position himself between informality – associated with Geelong and streetwise toughness – and the refinement of Lorne's upper-middle-class milieu; in that, he is a man capable of being in many spaces, but belonging to none. Writer Orson Scott Card (1988) observes, the narrator’s voice is created through his attitude and implied past, letting speech reflect his education and diction in syntax and word choice (p. 143). This is arguably achieved through a blurring of the moral, legal, and social order within which the private eye works. Indeed, as critic and literary scholar Frank Krutnik (1991) notes, the private eye “operates as a mediator between the criminal underworld and the world of the respectable society; he can move freely between these two worlds, without really being part of either” (p. 39). Therefore, in developing Erskine Falls, I sought for the reader to be kept close to the mind of Carver who is immersed in the action, yet struggles to make sense of what is happening. As Card (1988) observes “[t]he narrative voice has to sound like the first-person narrator; if it doesn’t, it’s a flaw of the author’s technique” (p. 128). Here, I not only looked to negotiate the narrative voice within the protagonist’s characterisation, but also his position as the narrator.

As discussed, I felt that I needed to capture a sense of alienation, anxiety, and loneliness (Horsley, 2009, p. 71) within the protagonist, and invariably regardless of how the characters see or perceive themselves to be victims of forces beyond their control (Horsley, 2009, p. 69; Orr, 2000, p. 49). This idea fascinated me as I aimed to create a protagonist that is not just a ‘one-dimensional character’ that solves the case, and restores order, but one that is entangled in failings and guilt. In pursuing this, I 329 discovered that Rawson observes how hardboiled fiction contributes to the making of the mythic hero through the idea of the deficient psyche; that is, “the psyche that can never be healed” (Rawson, 2009, p. 295). This concept I found particularly interesting, and began to consider ways in which I could take Carver’s voice of experiential conflict into the noir. In doing so, I explored how his feelings of guilt over former colleague, Lyle Bowman’s death, and his anxiety in his affair with Lauren, could be developed; and, how his cynicism of society, particularly within Geelong and Lorne, could be demonstrated through his observations.

Conclusion

Through the process of creating both the novel and exegesis, I found the issue concerning voice to be quite challenging. Creating the protagonist that I had envisioned required me not only to reflect on the nature of voice and its various methods of construction, but also to develop a relationship between Carver’s role in the novel, his way of connecting with the world, and the tone and diction he used to express these. This led me to discover why the element of voice is vital to a narrative, particularly through the lens of the first-person narrator, but also to examine how my protagonist could articulate both a hardboiled and noir tone. In seeking to create Carver’s voice, this directed me to examine how other novelists expressed their protagonists’ thoughts and vision through use of tone, diction, colloquialism and syntax. Discovering these devices, and examining critical material on how these elements articulate the protagonist’s dialogue and perceptions, allowed me to then create a sense of verisimilitude in Carver and the narrative.

During this process, and as I broadened my reading of texts within the crime fiction genre, such as James Ellroy’s White Jazz (1993), James Sallis’ The Long- Legged Fly (2012), and The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender by Marele Day (1988) amongst others, I found that I was able to negotiate and apply influential elements such as characterisation, diction and world view. And so, I discovered that not only the protagonists’ voice had developed, but also my own as a writer; and, this form of practice-led research enabled me to not only find a stronger and consistent voice for the protagonist, but also perhaps a greater fluidity and confidence in my authorship.

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Applying a practice-led research methodology allowed me to expand from Carver’s masculine subject position and his voice, to his sense of place in the world. Therefore, in the final chapter: Place, I examine why I primarily set the narrative in Lorne and secondarily in Geelong, and how both these spaces create a sense of tension in Carver’s sense of masculinity, as well as through the nature of his investigation.

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Chapter 4: Place

In the first chapter of the exegesis, Genre, I introduced my novel Erskine Falls and its protagonist, private investigator Frank Carver. I discussed its position as a text within the tradition of the crime fiction subgenres, specifically noir and hardboiled detective literature. The second chapter, Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, examined how masculinity provides a conceptual framework for this exegesis, with a focus on Carver’s subjectivity as a man in a post-industrial landscape, and as an investigator in this contemporary noir world. The third chapter, Voice, further considered Carver’s position as the protagonist in light of his subjectivity as the narrator-investigator, and evaluated his hardboiled voice. This final chapter, Place, examines the locations, spaces, and the sense of home and place that defines the noir world of Erskine Falls and Carver’s masculine position as an investigator within it.

When deciding where to set the novel, I initially considered the capital of the state of Victoria, Melbourne, a site of some familiarity to me. On reflection, however, I realised that numerous crime fiction works were already set in this metropolis such as Zane Lovitt’s The Midnight Promise (2012), Peter Temple’s Jack Irish series (1996- 2003), Shane Maloney’s Murray Whelan novels (1994-2007), Leigh Redhead’s Simone Kirsch PI series (2004-2010), Garry Disher’s police procedurals (1999-2011), Kerry Greenwood’s historical crime novels featuring Phryne Fisher (1989-2013), and most recently, Emma Viskic’s (2015) debut work Resurrection Bay, and many more. According to critic Rodney Wetherell (2006), the Victorian capital has long been a favourite novel setting since the colonial era, providing various writers such as Fergus Hume, Henry Handel Richardson, Norman Lindsay, Nevil Shute, Frank Hardy, Helen Garner and so on, a well of material from which to draw. I did not want to locate the narrative in an already crowded literary space nor duplicate these writers’ settings.

Needing a location with a degree of freshness but unsure where this might be, I considered what place could actually mean in relation to my story and more broadly as a concept. I had always been interested in how writers used locations and environments as more than just settings and agree with critic David Geherin’s (2015) idea that “place plays a decisive role in shaping lives” (p. 7). In crime fiction, place is

332 not just the locus in which characters reside but can be where crime is committed, and may also be a key contributor to the crime in that the crime evolved from the nature of the place. Indeed, as writer Sue Turnbull (1999) writes “[w]hether the story is set in the country or the city, what seems to matter most in crime fiction is that there be some inherent connection between location and crime” (p. 56). Similarly, Marilyn Rose and Jeannette Sloniowski (2005) observe that “detective fiction is on the whole remarkably place-specific” (p. 86).

These insights were helpful, but what resonated most was theorist Michel de Certeau’s (1984) definition of place (lieu) as the order of elements distributed in coexistence and as an arrangement of configurations situated together. He writes that: “A place is thus an instantaneous configuration of positions. It implies an indication of stability” (p. 117). This approach towards place seemed to me to capture the delicately balanced nature of place by recognising its many variables, which I consider to be aspects of the era, political situation, historical background, social structure, local tensions, geographic features, and diversity of population. This notion of stability also cohered well with the traditionally hardboiled notion that a detective’s world weariness marks him as one who can read the spaces that he moves through, whether the streets, people, or mood (Howell, 1998; Nicol, 2013).

Much of Carver’s world, however, needed to be decidedly unknowable, unstable, or shifting, in order for him to serve the narrative’s needs as a man out of his depth in a confusing and unpredictable world. Yet as de Certeau suggests, for most of us, and for the characters in Erskine Falls before the disappearance of Cassandra/‘Candy’, the places that acts as the backdrop to our lives do tend to have a predictability and stability to them due to our absolute embeddedness in them throughout the everyday. These are places that we come to know and as a result they grow predictable. If Carver is to be a detective and observer that the reader trusts, then we need to believe that he does know the lay of his land. Thus, I was faced with a dilemma – in order to create a noir space around Carver with the qualities of uncertainty, unpredictability and threat, it seemed pertinent to undermine this natural sense of stability, yet he still needed to have spaces in which his ability to read and know were visible for the reader.

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This dilemma led me to think further about what it is about a place or setting that creates uncertainty or, thinking in more writerly terms, what creates dramatic tension. Critic Leonard Lutwack (1984) defines place as “the reconstitution in words of those aspects of the actual environment that a writer puts together to make up the ‘world’ in which its characters, events, and themes have their show of existence” (p. 37). While, for scholar Nigel Krauth (2003), the notion of place within a narrative “already contains the drama, already implies characters, issues, particular kinds of action, a plot, or a part of a plot”. He continues, “theme, action, characters and plots are inseparable from setting” (p. 1). These insights from Lutwack and Krauth suggest that it is the internal tensions of a place and its inhabitants that spill out as conflict.

As briefly discussed in earlier chapters, I was eager to draw into the story the challenges posed to masculine identity by living and working in a post-industrial regional city. Situating the story and protagonist in this type of environment meant that I had at my creative disposal a space familiar to Carver which he inhabited and an overflow of conflict and tension, but that was also actively defamiliarising itself through the difficult process of winding down its manufacturing industries. This provided a subtle point of comparison for Carver as he could observe and comment upon his surrounds before and after industrial roll back.

Candy’s disappearance and near death and the investigative trails around it could also reflect this slowly fading world – if she were the victim of overt aggression this could be tied to the ‘old’ Geelong of manufacturing times. This was a rough and tumble harsh blue-collar world of heavy drinking factory workers, streets filled with post-release prisoner rehousing, and many motorcycle clubhouses doubling as organised crime centres, all set against a lack of appropriate support services for drug treatment and domestic violence. On the other hand, if she was to be the victim of pornographic film production and distribution gone wrong or misadventure by her wealthy real estate funded family, this outcome could be seen as representative of the ‘new’ Geelong desperately seeking a saviour through service industries and new forms of tourism.

Yet change does not happen in a city overnight, so it felt that it might not be realistic to have Carver feel too alienated in Geelong. In order to move Carver into a more challenging noir space, it would work to also position him in a place that was

334 completely alien to him and that represented a complete shift in social and moral geography from Geelong. A little more than an hour down the road from Geelong is Lorne, which is an expensive beach resort town driven by the tourist dollar. It could be argued that Lorne is what Geelong could easily become through its tourist and service- led revival. Here was a place that Carver would have difficulty acclimatising to, testing both his ability to ‘read’ and ‘resolve’ elements of the crime. Excited by the possibilities of how Carver might interact with these two places and how they might be used as spaces for the testing of his own masculinity, I began to work through in greater detail how both Lorne and Geelong could fit into the narrative.

Carver as an observer of place

As discussed above, an investigator’s success in crime fiction is often due to his ability to know the streets of the city he inhabits (Howell, 1998; Nicol, 2013). This is a form of embeddedness that I aimed to achieve in creating Carver, which could allow him to interact within the city’s space(s) – sites in which he not only investigates, but resides. Here, I felt that Carver should experience not only the topography and landscape of Geelong, the city in which he lives but notably that of Lorne – the picturesque tourist coastal town where much of his investigation proceeds. Geographer John Wiley (2007) describes landscape as “the mutual embeddedness and interconnectivity of self, body, knowledge and land – landscape as the world we live in, a constantly emergent perceptual and material milieu” (p. 1). Thus, from Wiley’s concept I noticed that like similar private eyes, he has developed (through his work) an organically grounded experience – a knowledgeable cultural geography of the post-industrial regional city of Geelong, but in Lorne he is an outsider to the town’s social milieus as he attempts to solve the case.

In pursuing this, I seized upon the idea of Baudelaire’s flâneur or stroller, a pedestrian voyeur, who discretely observes the city’s spaces – its shops, facades, images, litter, its crime, corruption, its decadence and depravity, and its peoples, as he anonymously walks the city’s streets (Barker, 2000, p. 135). This provides a figure whom, through his transitory engagement with the urban life, is a detached spectator rather than a participant. However, through this social detachment, I recognised that there is a sense of loneliness that develops within the individual, who, according to theorist Georg Simmel (1971) tries to “maintain the independence and individuality of 335 his existence against the sovereign powers of society” (p. 324). I found this notion particularly interesting as it also resonates with the noir thematic sensibilities of loneliness, isolation, alienation (Horsley, 2009, p. 23; Porfirio, 1996, p. 81).

To develop this, I sought to articulate Carver’s sense of self through his observations in Lorne (Mallon, pp. 38-39, p. 92), as well as in his city streets of Geelong (Mallon, p. 13). In doing so, I attempted to illustrate not only the transient spaces of urban life, but also the temporality of Carver’s subjective position. He is a distanced observer, frequently blurring the moral, legal, and social order. An aspect of this is demonstrated in the following example: “The car idled amongst the soaked rubbish skips and drowned cigarette butts. A police siren wailed in the distance and echoed closer. Cops were a rarity in Lorne, like a cheap sandwich. It felt good to be back” (Mallon, p. 176).

Here we see that he is at home amongst the detritus of Geelong, those things left behind from an older world that is being pulled apart and dumped for rubbish collection, and that, like cigarette’s themselves, are increasingly outlawed.

Geelong

Geelong is it a regional city that, like other similar cities in Australia (Newcastle, Wollongong), the US (Baltimore, Detroit, Pittsburgh), and the UK (Sheffield, Glasgow), has undergone a radical socio-cultural and economic change due to industrial and manufacturing closure. Like many of these cities, this change has moved Geelong towards service industries, such as hospitality and tourism. By using this location of change as my backdrop for my novel, I had to consider the degree to which such change may affect the masculine subject position of the protagonist. In doing so, I sought to examine how the dichotomy of decay and renewal could become a metaphor for the protagonist’s sense of self, providing a shift from nostalgia to recognition of change. The notion of renewal or ‘gentrification’ is exemplified in Lorne: the key setting of the novel, and the type of site which Geelong (real or imaginary) could ultimately become.

Theorist Daniel Bell (1973) asserts a post-industrial society articulates a shift from industrial manufacturing to service-based industries centred on information technology. Similarly, scholar Chris Barker (2000) notes that this technological shift

336 contributes to social change as knowledge exchange and cultural production replace heavy industry and manufacturing processes within the economy. Information technology and new cultural imperatives drive social change from patterns of production to patterns of consumption. In returning to my novel, I sought to illustrate how through Carver’s masculine subjective position he witnesses and reflects upon these types of changes taking place in Geelong as it transitions from an industrial- manufacturing centre to a city that has been forced to recreate itself as a services-based hub of tourism, hospitality and education. For example:

It wasn’t that long ago, maybe thirty years when ships lined-up in dock, their crews inhabiting the nearby haunts like the Sailor’s Rest or the Golden Age, while the stench of heavy industry wafted across the bay from Corio and Norlane. Back then, the city chugged along on manufacturing, now it just chinked on coffee cups (Mallon, p. 8).

Here, I aimed to evoke a form of traditional or normative masculinity that I felt Carver could identify with as a man growing up in the city, yet now can only reminisce about as he, and the city, transform and become gentrified. However, as the novel progressed, I realised that this sentiment was insufficient as it did not aptly demonstrate how such changes affected the protagonist’s masculine sense of self within the spaces he inhabits.

To remedy this, I had Carver reflect back through the changes that he has seen throughout his 40-plus years in his city, and how these social adjustments affect him and his work. These changes, as Broughton and Walton (2006) observe, reflect not only the potentiality of a loss of socio-economic agency, and male identity, but also an increased scrutiny of masculinity wrought by deindustrialisation. To develop this, I investigated similar texts in which a discourse of masculinity and post-industrial landscapes intersect and provide a nexus for a socio-cultural change. This I found to be pivotal as it allowed me to not only construct the dynamic shift in Geelong, but also explore how this transformation is articulated through Carver’s sense of his world, and his place in it as a man negotiating this space.

In examining narratives in noir crime fiction stories such as Atom Smasher (2011) by Lila Shaara, A Minor Extinction (2011) by Paul Lee, and Katherine Miller Haines’ Homecoming (2011), all set in Pittsburgh, I noticed that while the male 337 characters lead ordinary lives they are forced to reconcile with events out of their control, contemporary agencies such as a downturned economy or crime that impacts their lives, resulting in characters becoming disenfranchised and questioning their sense of masculinity. These types of individuals are similarly explored in other contemporary works such as Dennis Lehane’s Coronado (2007) and Mystic River (2001), as well as his PI series featuring Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro in works such as Gone Baby Gone (1998), set in Boston, and Sara Paretsky’s Body Work (2010) in Chicago.

This discourse, I discovered, is also explored in northern European writers such as Ian Rankin and Henning Mankell through works in which their protagonists and other characters similarly cross between social acceptability and being outcasts, but due to various socio-cultural imperatives they ultimately remain disenfranchised, living on the social fringe. In Mankell’s Wallander series (1991-2009), the protagonist, despite having cordial relations with his colleagues, resides outside of the small town of Ystad and has little to do with them beyond his police work. Similarly, according to critic Len Wanner (2015), Rankin’s protagonist Rebus is “as an alienated individual locked into an existential conflict with urban modernity” (p. 24). Indeed, it is this sense of duality that Rebus, Wallander and similar investigators explore in their world – be it the city of Edinburgh or Ystad, I found it useful as not only does it provide a metaphor for representations of society, but notably for the investigator himself.

In applying this motif to my novel, I began to recognise how Carver is both physically and metaphorically distanced from others around him; in that, he lives a solitary life, has few friends, and rarely sees his neighbours. To develop this, I returned to my research and discovered that this sense of maladjustment is a common theme in noir crime fiction and film noir where protagonists are alienated and disillusioned with cultural norms (Horsley, 2009, p. 96; Schrader, 1996, pp. 54-55). In my novel, I sought to evoke similar tropes. In doing so, however, I recognised that Carver is not only maladjusted to the times, but his changing environment. I sought to explore this theme through his occasional out-dated engagement and social practices, and by reminiscing about his city’s past. To compound this sentiment, I felt that Carver should be, often due to his work, alienated from others, which I attempted to articulate through the novel as I was fascinated with this element of loneliness, yet also attaining a detachment from others around him. This is further compounded, for example, by his 338 lover, Lauren’s suicide (Mallon, pp. 186-188), and in his lack of fulfilment after he finds the missing girl and the case is closed (Mallon, pp. 261-262).

In further developing this sentiment, I began to reflect upon how Carver needed to be able to renegotiate his position, in that, he could feel and articulate how the world around him had shifted, and thus, how he attempted to live in this dynamic space. Here, I felt Carver should witness Geelong and Lorne’s social and economic landscapes, and see not only how they affected others, but also himself. In this respect, I needed Carver to not only observe Geelong’s shifting topography but also its variable cultural effects such as its café scene and burgeoning tourist industry that would ostensibly mirror Lorne. In doing so, I attempted to articulate how the coastal town provides an extreme example of what Geelong could become – a bourgeois dystopia of hyper-tourism and commodified identities.

In further pursuing this discourse concerning the city’s economic and socio- cultural renewal, critic Leslie Kern (2010) contends that contemporary post-industrial cities which have undergone gentrification provide a discursive link with fear and a threat of the urban, and those who inhabits its space(s). This presents a paradox which draws on ideals of the city as a place of freedom, pleasure and adventure (Simmel, 1971; Wirth, 1938). Conversely, what makes the city a place of excitement constitutes its paradox; that, it is also a place of anxiety and threat, from a masculinised or patriarchal (Lefebvre, 1991) city of production and industry, to a feminised site of leisure and consumption (Bondi, 1992; Hayden, 1995). Upon considering these concepts, I attempted to illustrate this notion of gendered space through Carver’s observation of Geelong’s burgeoning café culture and service industries (Mallon, p. 6), and how these could pose a sense of threat to the streets through forms of securitisation and surveillance.

When considering how to integrate and convey a looming sense of securitisation, I realised in earlier drafts Carver’s observations centred on others and the space(s) around him. I wanted to push this further and give a sense that Carver himself was being surveilled and that this was a cause of his increasing paranoia, which is another typical noir trope (Horsley, 2009; Porfirio, 1996). That is, I felt that Carver should be watched, or feel that he is being watched, in order to add further anxiety within the narrative. In order to develop a stronger discourse of security in the

339 novel, I drew on the Foucauldian theory of panopticism (1977), that is, the watching of a subject placed in the context of maximum visibility. This provided a sense of continuous and anonymous pervading power and surveillance operating within the social apparatus, allowing “small theatres, in which each actor is alone, perfectly individualised and constantly visible” (p. 200).

If we know that one can be watched at any time, does that mean that we constantly feel watched? This sense of scrutiny extends beyond being monitored for physical movement. Scholar Adam Molnar (2017) observes that the proliferation of such surveillance technologies in Australia creates “an unprecedented means for governments and the private sector to monitor personal communications and profile behaviours” (p. 382). I attempted to construct this motif by having Carver experience a constant sense of paranoia. Carver feels watched by the CTTVs in Lauren’s apartment building and car park, and, again in precincts such as Market Square (in Geelong’s CBD) – a space populated with security cameras. This allowed me to subvert the function of the private detective: the watcher becomes the watched. Securitisation in the gentrified city not only heightens anxieties (of a perceived threat) for those who have agency (Kern, 2010), but also creates a shadowed aesthetic for the city in which all its citizenry is surveyed.

With this in mind, in earlier drafts I sought to articulate a sense of threat of violence within the urban space of Geelong (Mallon, p. 13); however, upon engaging with Kern’s (2010) analysis, I began to reinterpret what type of threat might impact on Carver. Rather than violence by thugs against Carver in Geelong, I decided that a potential threat could derive from financial motives. Here, I considered how a sense of insecurity could be established from moves to redevelop or gentrify Carver’s domestic space. I explored how Carver’s landlord’s intention to ‘gentrify’ the building may result in Carver paying higher rent, or forcing him out. This allowed me to re-enforce the challenge of living in a post-industrial city. To communicate this, I constantly had Carver acknowledge the changes in the city that were taking place – from factories and wharves to gleaming shopping centres and apartment blocks – because I felt it was necessary to not only provide a sense of how he could see the environment around him but also how the reader (through Carver’s eyes) may gain some perspective of the city’s landscape. This I aimed to demonstrate in the following example:

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The northern end of the city, towards the bay, old wool stores and Victorian and Federation buildings were being renovated, while new apartment blocks of glass and steel twisted into weird postmodern shapes were being put up at a rate of knots (Mallon, p. 8).

As I discovered, this description of place undergoing significant change, as theorist Sharon Zukin (1991) observes, produces “landscapes of creative destruction” (p. 29). Therefore, for Geelong’s identity to be recreated, its former industrial and manufacturing identity must be destroyed. This gentrification, as critic Matthew Rofe (2004) contends, provides a revitalisation process of urban regeneration, and is emblematic of the city’s changing social and economic milieus.

To pursue this notion further, I felt that Carver, through his hardboiled voice, should be cynical of the production and consumption of such spaces. In doing so, this cynicism towards such gentrified spaces could provide in him a nostalgic sense of masculinity representative of Geelong’s industrial-era past. Here, I recognised the mythic qualities of the white masculine Australian character, often portrayed and mythologised in the Anzac digger, bushrangers and the like (Hogan, 2008, p. 33). This sentiment, I found, is similarly echoed in critic Katherine Newman’s (1999) observation that contemporary masculine ideals are conjured from an idyllic past; in that, “[i]n reconstructing their own history, remembrance becomes an act of criticism and a source of explanation for modern (Australia) is not what is it should be” (p. 175). This sense of nostalgia, I discovered, resonated in works such as Peter Corris’ Saving Billie (2005) in which PI Cliff Hardy reminisces about the Sydney suburbs he lives and works:

When I first got to Glebe the small spaces in front of most of the terraces were filled with weeds, rubbish, and supermarket trolleys. Now they sprouted well-tended native gardens, and the old, gap-toothed wrought iron fences had been replaced by intact modern versions of the same thing. The security doors and window bars were another innovation (pp. 91-92).

Here, Hardy’s reflections recognise the paradox that comes with gentrification – a securitisation of the home coupled with the aesthetic charms in which one lives. Critic Ken Gelder (2009) observes that in Corris’ later Hardy novels, the gentrification of the harbour city provides nostalgic elements within the narratives for what the city 341 was, or could have been (p. 144). In developing this sentiment in my novel, I noticed through the drafting process that rather than Carver merely commenting on the cultural shift of Geelong’s blue-collar milieu (real or imagined), I needed him to be able to reflect on these changes with a sense of melancholia and iterate how they affect him and his world view. I sought to articulate Carver’s sense of nostalgia in examples such as this:

Some of the sandstone buildings like the old Customs House on Brougham Street remained, but like almost every other building, it became a cafe – serving overpriced drinks to undervalued customers (Mallon, p. 8).

Here I aimed to provide a passage that, similar to other noir texts, explores motifs in which the protagonist is maladjusted to the city’s shifting cultural and socio- economic landscape.

In developing this section, I sought to articulate how the protagonist’s subject position is required to not only respond to the post-industrial environment in which he lives, but recognise how this shift corresponds to a move towards gentrification and a recapitalisation through service industries. In doing so, I have also sought to demonstrate how the social landscape is altered through a sense of surveillance and greater securitisation.

To further consider Carver’s sense of maladjustment in a gentrified landscape, I sought to position him in the coastal resort town of Lorne. Here, I explored how, through Carver’s investigation, I could place him in spaces that not only illustrate the town’s surface of bourgeois social milieus and hyper-tourism, but also its dark underside.

Lorne

Critic Murray S. Martin (1995) observes that: “the modern detective story does much more than solve a crime. It investigates its cultural surroundings. This is particularly true with exotic settings” (p. 113). This resonated as I thought about how to represent Lorne. For a local, it is a country town made good, a once quiet scenic coastal nook that has now outpriced its original inhabitants. For a potential overseas readership, I felt the locale could be read as exotic with the picturesque town nestled between

342 rainforest and the beach. This setting, I discovered, somewhat resonated with critic John Fiske’s assessment of the beach as part of ‘Australia’s mythology’, in that:

The beach’s centrality to the culture is won by its appropriation of those attitudes most closely related to an Australian mythology while placing itself in opposition to those that are excluded... [W]hile drawing so heavily on the natural, it manages to fit so seamlessly into its urban context (culture) without losing its potential for its primary meaning (nature) (Fiske et al., 1987, p. 54).

The notion of setting a crime fiction narrative in an actual Australian town also held allure for me. Indeed, crime novelist Leigh Redhead (2016) noted that: “while authors do not seem to have any problem setting crime novels in Australian cities, it is difficult to find a contemporary rural crime narrative which takes place in a real Australian town” (p. 13).

With this in mind, I returned to my novel and proceeded to look at how Carver could express his sense of place by being able to recognise the beauty (and danger) of the beach – be it at Lorne or other sites along the Great Ocean Road, yet be cognisant that this place is a landscape that he does not, and cannot occupy. In developing this dichotomy, I felt Carver should recognise the area’s surf culture and natural environment (Mallon, p. 175) as something desirable, even exotic; yet ultimately intangible, and inaccessible. In considering this notion, I began to recognise that marginalising Carver in Lorne, with its holiday atmosphere, allowed him as the protagonist to have a detached perspective as he works and resides in Geelong. This, I discovered, could allow the reader to become as much of a tourist to Lorne as Carver.

Critic Linda Lappin (2014) notes the genius loci (spirit of place) of such places provide its atmosphere or ambience, “or the qualities of its environment” (p. 2). While this Latin term is generally applied to pastoral, rural, sublime landscapes (Lappin, 2014, p. 3) particularly concerning such aesthetics in eighteenth- and nineteenth- century English literature, it may equally apply to architecture, buildings, and dwellings. In applying this notion to reading and understanding crime fiction, critic Eva Erdmann (2009) observes that it “becomes an ethnographic reading; the scene of the crime becomes the locus genius of the cultural tragedy” (p. 19).

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Thinking in terms of an ethnographic reading, in depicting Lorne and its space of hyper-tourism and commodification, I sought to construct a place tainted by its commercialism, yet also mask the dark, corruptive forces that hide beneath the glitzy surface of the town. Due to its proximity to Geelong (68 kilometres) and other locations along the Great Ocean Road such as Anglesea, Lorne provides an idyllic setting of beaches, rainforest and rugged coastlines. However, I was mindful that other crime novels had explored the broader region such as Dorothy Johnston’s Through a Camel’s Eye: A Sea Change Mystery set in Queenscliff (2016), Robert Gott’s The Port Fairy Murders (2015), Peter Temple’s The Broken Shore (2005) and Shane Maloney’s Something Fishy (2003), which features Lorne. These present varying messages about the area.

Crime writer Val McDermid, writing in The Times (2010) points to a similar issue when discussing Oxford. McDermid notes that the city provides a unique location: it “is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but murder is the ugliest act one human being can perpetrate against another. Perhaps that incongruity provides the creative tension we writers need” (pp. 18-19). In this sense, Lorne, like Oxford, offers a dichotomy in beauty and human ugliness. Indeed, the locations also share a similar trait, as McDermid quips, “Let’s face it, it has snob value” (p. 18). Therefore, what this tension examines is not whether the story is located in an urban space or a regional site but, as Sue Turnbull (1999) observes, whether there is a logical relationship between the location and crime (p. 56). So, attempting to create the coastal town as a bourgeois dystopia, I felt, offered me the opportunity to explore the incongruity of the idyll and the ugly; that is, how a tourist hub and its culture could not only affect how the mode of crime is committed, but how the perception of the crime is negotiated.

To further develop this idea of place influencing the nature of the crime committed, I played with the title of the novel. I felt that Erskine Falls provides an evocative title to describe the plot, narrative and characters of a hardboiled-noir detective fiction. Indeed, like some of Chandler’s titles that dwell on death in an indirect way – The Big Sleep (1939), The Lady in the Lake (1943), and The Long Goodbye (1953) (Knight, 1980, p. 164), I intended for Erskine Falls to allude, in an indirect way, to the manner in which the cuckolded character, Lawrence Erskine (Cassandra’s father) meets his fate. This results from his younger, second wife’s 344 manipulation and exploitation of his daughter. But the title also refers to the actual nearby waterfalls1. In setting the narrative in this location, I recognised that not only did the Surf Coast and Otway region and Greater Geelong, in particular, provide an untapped setting in Australian crime fiction2; they also offers a potential fruitful marketing and sales perspective due to the region’s strong tourism.3

In pursuing this concept, I started to explore and recognise in my writing how Carver could question Lorne’s, and by extension its inhabitants’, construction of reality. I was inspired by Marele Day’s The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender (1988), in which her protagonist Claudia Valentine used the city as a motif for one of the novel’s characters. For example: “The city was highly strung, a girl like Sally, a beautiful, made-up face, a sophisticated child, cool and crying and laughing all in one breath, a liar, a tease” (p. 110). In recognising this hardboiled trope, I felt that Carver could similarly, through his cynical observations of Lorne’s inflated property market, and glittery neon retail and social scene, provide a vision of what Geelong might become – a false or at least shallow aesthetic of a reinvented city without a soul.

In extending this development, I was fascinated by the aesthetic captured in the dark and unhinged nature of domesticity and regional community, as depicted in Chandler’s Lady in the Lake (1944), Raymond Carver’s short story So Much Water so Close to Home (1981) and, similarly explored in David Lynch and Mark Frost’s television series Twin Peaks (1990-91), all of which create mystery around a place of water. This thematic device is also similarly used in Adrian Deans’ Straight Jacket (2013), Unseen (2007) by Mari Jungstedt and Garry Disher’s The Dragon Man (2006). Though these writers’ works are set in suburban Sydney, regional Sweden, and the Mornington Peninsula, respectively, they share a nuanced perspective of how crime infects a community. In these texts, a girl’s body is found in or beside a waterway, and

1 During a visit to Melbourne in 1891, English poet Rudyard Kipling is believed to have visited Lorne, and whilst there referenced the Erskine Falls in a poem, The Flowers. The Falls were named after the ship’s officer, Erskine, who was engaged in coastal survey work. From, Sketches at Lorne, c. 1890. 2 A survey of the Australian Crime Fiction Database (http://www.crimedownunder.com) revealed only one novel: Something Fishy (2003) by Shane Maloney, featured Lorne, let alone the Surf Coast and Geelong. 3 Tourism Victoria figures show the Great Ocean Road region (encompassing Lorne) had more than 170,000 international visitors in 2015, http://www.tourism.vic.gov.au/research/international- research/international-visitation.html 345 in each case the girl’s body is naked; thus, providing a juxtaposition between beauty and death.

In creating my novel, I looked at how I could similarly use this popular tendency in my writing. I thought that if I placed the naked female body in a similar space, it would provide a disruptive element to the serenity of the location. In this sense, the body not only provides stark aesthetic contrast to the immediate environment, but it also creates a mechanism to subvert the image of the blissful domestic, familial and touristic space that is the idyllic Lorne.

As mentioned, the gentrified space, as Latham (2003) suggests, may represent a re-gendering of the urban space, presenting it as a clean, safe and maintained site for professional women. In pursuing this notion, I attempted to paint Geelong as a post- industrial regional city in a state of transition, and by contrast – Lorne, a tourist hub that is gentrified, and arguably already feminised. In further developing this idea, I sought to illustrate how the coastal town, as a gentrified space, is not only one of leisure and consumption (Bondi, 1992; Hayden, 1995) but also of commodification. Arguably, tourism provides a form of spectacle; that is, the tourist is a spectator of the environment of attractions, be it commercial or otherwise. In expanding my research, I drew on theorist Guy Debord’s (1994) concept of the spectacle, which is: “not a collection of images; rather, it is a social relationship between people that is mediated by images” (p. 12). In developing these ideas, I began to explore a duality of knowledge and power relations between characters concerning imagery. I considered how Erskine Falls (the actual waterfalls) might be used as an image to create a surface beauty hiding a violent secret – the location of the missing girl whereby tourists take photographs and ‘selfies’ at the site, yet are unaware of what (actually) lies there.

Using Debord’s notions of spectacle, I also sought to communicate how, in Lorne, Rebecca is able to control Cassandra and others through film imagery; how she manipulates Cassandra and thus constructs images for Carver (and others) to consume. I also looked at how images created by tourism, i.e., the postcard – Greetings from Lorne – found by Carver in Cassandra’s dorm and again in the backpacker hostel room, could not only provide a clue in his investigation but constructs a social relationship between the consumer (or reader) and the image. In developing this idea, I also needed to consider how the image represents commodification of place and its

346 identities. I felt I should offer Carver (as well as the reader) a vision of Lorne – a scene of families frolicking on the beach; but in doing so, I recognised that the image is ostensibly one that is commodified. Theorists Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno contend that cultural products such as advertising, and by extension postcards, are commodities manufactured by the Culture Industry, which, though it claims to be diversified and democratic, is in reality conformist, producing standardised material “that ceaselessly reduces the pleasure it promises as a commodity to that mere promise” (p. 131); that is, the cultural product is merely an artefact to sell an ideal, a dream. In this sense, I felt Carver (and potentially the reader) needed to view the image and to be potentially sold by its vision of fun, family and a sense of wholesomeness. This is demonstrated in the following example:

I got out of the chair and grabbed the postcard. The numbers on the back didn’t mean anything to me. The front read: Greetings from Lorne in gold lettering with a family playing about on the beach. I didn’t buy it (Mallon, p. 84).

Thus, while Carver recognises the intention of the image, due to his hardboiled cynicism, he is never sold or bought by the image that is constructed for others to consume, and by extension, he is not captured by Rebecca.

In this section, I aimed to explore the relationship between the culture of Lorne and the nature of the crime committed. In doing so, I sought to examine how Lorne, as a tourist destination, provides a form of spectacle and presents a set of particular social conditions.

Place as home

In further exploring the concept of place, I returned to de Certeau’s notion of stability as a way of developing Carver’s sense of what it means to be home in Geelong. Here, I looked at how spaces such as Carver’s office and flat could provide the protagonist locations of masculine performance (as discussed in Chapter 2: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework), and offer a site of stability in an unstable world. For example, when Carver momentarily returns to his flat:

I rolled a smoke, fixed myself a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and then placed the SIM card in the sugar bowl for safe keeping…. I went around and watered my plants dotted about the flat, flicked-on the radio for the weather forecast. Sunshine filtered 347

through the curtains onto the camel-coloured carpet and old brown-leather couch (Mallon, p. 132).

I aimed to create a space that provides Carver a sense of anchored place, where he may feel and articulate a sense of security and solace in his home. In doing so, however, I was also cognisant of Nicol’s (2013) observations that hardboiled-noir fiction depicts a lonely, pessimistic world (p. 96). In this respect, I wanted to express that while Carver may find a sense of stability in his home, he is still alone.

As my writing progressed, I felt that Carver needed to gain a greater awareness of the space which he inhabits with his colleague, Janice, through exploring the work place as a site of social interaction. To develop this, I examined how the social constructions of gender capital – how men/women through their agency contribute to the masculinisation/feminisation of work, the work space and socially gendered dispositions (Huppatz & Goodwin, 2013), could be applied to my work. Here, I looked at how both Carver and Janice are socially positioned within the office; and, how through their respective agency, they interact and create a work environment. Thus, I experimented with using this concept to explore how Carver becomes a minimal presence in his supposedly masculine office space. This then allowed me to alter the office dynamic by creating a somewhat feminised space through Janice’s agency in her work, and use of flowers and aesthetics (Mallon, p. 260).

In writing this space, as well as scenes within Carver’s flat, I looked to describe how such settings could depict the male private eye’s existential world. According to critic Robert G. Porfirio (1996) “[t]he only sanctuary left for the (noir) hero is his Spartan office or apartment room (where) he goes back there for spiritual renewal... They can use the quiet and solitude to try and order their lives” (p. 93). This idea brought me back to theorist Michel de Certeau’s (1984) concept of place (lieu) in providing a space of stability. In seeking to apply this idea, I considered how I could place Carver in such space(s), and how, within these sites, a sense of security or sanctuary could be evoked. However, mindful that Janice, as mentioned, is positioned in his office, this then led me to explore Carver’s flat as a space where he could be, and feel at home. With this in mind, I sought to construct an environment that felt homely, with appropriate furnishings for a male protagonist, as well as provide a suitable setting which afforded him a sense of place (Mallon, p. 200). 348

However, I discovered that writer Vivian Sobchack’s (1998) interpretation of noir crime fiction reinforced the idea of the male private eye’s potential symbolic homelessness. Thus, due to his investigative quest the PI is cast out of home, or any sense of home, and prevented from retreating to any form of safe, domestic security. I examined how this idea could be applied in my novel by seeking to evoke elements of suspicion, foreboding, and guilt (Horsley, 2009, p. 11) amongst others. In doing so, I felt I needed Carver to gain a false sense of security in his office as he becomes haunted by Bowman’s death, and his feelings toward Bowman’s widow, Lauren. This then led me to explore how symbolic homelessness could affect Carver so that any sense of security that his office may provide is evaporated as past events penetrate the present.

To further develop this, I also began to examine how symbolic homelessness could be extended to his residence. Here, I initially considered how this potentially real threat could derive from violence through characters associated with femme fatale, Rebecca, and/or crooked property developer, Eddie Shaw. However, within the drafting process I then looked to another potential threat whereby Carver receives a letter from his real estate agent detailing the landlord’s intention to ‘gentrify’ the building; this could result in Carver paying higher rent, or force him to move out. In fostering this idea, I sought to provide a claustrophobic tone to the narrative by compounding his situation – time is running out to find the missing girl, save his love life and make a decision concerning his living arrangements. This, I felt, further builds a sense of Carver’s noir world contracting.

Conclusion

In conclusion, when conceiving Erskine Falls I initially sought to establish the protagonist and narrative in a metropolitan centre, namely Melbourne. But through research, I not only discovered that this location had already laid the foundation for many and varied stories, but in doing so, I recognised that places I was familiar with: Geelong, but to a greater extent the coastal town of Lorne and along the Great Ocean Road, provided a nuanced, exotic, and potentially richer setting for the novel.

Here, I attempted to describe how the protagonist negotiates his sense of masculinity in his city’s post-industrial transformation, as well as his estrangement in

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Lorne and its cultural milieus. In doing so, I discovered that in crime fiction “place plays a decisive role in shaping lives” (Geherin, 2015, p. 7). In applying this concept, I found that not only did I seek to create places that provide a verisimilitude in their depictions, but also explored how these places act as spaces which affect particular genders, populations and social classes differently.

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Conclusion

At the beginning of this journey of critical reflection and creative practice, I felt I already had a story developed, and a fully realised protagonist to carry the narrative forward. However, through initiating a methodology of practice-led research, I discovered that both the story and the protagonist I had sought to write needed to be completely reconceptualised. This, I found, could only be achieved through scholarly research and critical and creative engagement, which provided me with tools to build an exegesis and create the world of Erskine Falls. I found this reflective practice (Schön, 1983) provided me an opportunity to write creatively while examining scholarly and creative material in order to assemble and enhance the novel and exegetical work, both separately and simultaneously. This created a dialogue between the artefact and exegesis that allowed research to function as a third element that triangulates the two together and provide new insights to my fellow practitioners.

The exegesis has been developed through four lenses: genre, masculinity, voice, and place. I chose to frame the exegesis on these elements as each caused a point of tension in my creative process.

In Chapter 1: Genre, I discussed the question of which genre is the best fit for my story, and how the use of conventions found within both hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction subgenres could be applied to my novel. Here, I recognised that by applying these tropes, the novel and protagonist began to slide between these subgenres. I was attracted to the tendency of crime fiction, particularly the hardboiled variety, to emphasise the injustices and inequities of a society (Scaggs, 2005, p. 63). As a writer, the genre offered me an opportunity to explore through a fictional prism how the city that I had grown up in had changed in the face of the roll back of manufacturing industries and the rise of service industries such as tourism. These changes presented a new set of power relationships for the city and its inhabitants and hence a new set of crimes. Hard boiled’s tendency to focus on flawed family dynamics and social change marked it as a particularly useful subgenre for the novel, however its lack of nuance into the psychological aspects of change meant it could render the story weak on deep characterisation.

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However, I wanted to capture the sense of alienation and anxiety felt by people when faced with changes to their life employment, their ability to support themselves and their families, and to their identities as blue-collar workers and bread-earners. Adding elements of the noir subgenre allowed me to articulate how anxiety, loss and alienation could assert in people and particularly in my protagonist as he navigates his investigation and his slowly changing life. Noir inspired me to explore the existential frame within which my protagonist and other characters might exist, and how noir tropes such as loss, suspense, alienation, and guilt (Horsley, 2009, p. 8) could hold a powerful presence in the story. This literary and aesthetic combination of hard boiled and noir allowed Carver to oscillate along a spectrum between a hardboiled detective and a noir investigator. This blurring of motifs was then examined in the next chapter: Masculinity.

As both the exegesis and novel progressed, I considered how Carver could be constructed as a man in his late 40s, yet not past his prime, rather than merely as an abstract character. In the second chapter: Masculinity as a Conceptual Framework, I examined relationships between masculinity and place, and how the protagonist’s subjectivity could be developed in the anxiety of a post-industrial noir world, and how this shapes his identity. To develop this subjectivity, I drew from hardboiled detective and noir crime fiction tropes as found in works such as Howard Browne’s Man in the Dark (2010), Dorothy B. Hughes’ Ride the Pink Horse (1958), James Lee Burke’s The Neon Rain (1987) and Zane Lovitt’s The Midnight Promise (2012). These writers created characters that were flawed, yet also vulnerable to the world around them. Additionally, in Carver’s development I was also informed by critical material that examines issues such as masculinity, violence, voyeurism and guilt, with works such as by Robert Connell (2005), Michael Kimmel (2008), Laura Mulvey (1975) and Winfried Fluck (2001). In doing so, I wanted Carver to display common noir traits, but that are also Australian through exemplifying an egalitarian, hardiness, and anti- authoritarian spirit (Hogan, 2008, p. 19). I also explored how the traditional masculinity of the private eye is affected by domestic spaces.

In Chapter 3: Voice, I discussed the development of the protagonist’s voice and characterisation. Here, I explored through both technique and creativity how Carver’s unique view of the world should be communicated, how it should sound, and how use

352 of hardboiled and noir tropes influenced his language, diction and expression. This also led me to develop my own voice as a crime fiction writer.

To capture an authentic voice, I worked with vernacular and diction. Through analysis of crime fiction first-person narratives, I developed what I hoped was an interior monologue style unique to my character’s upbringing, his anxious psychological state, and a troubled or menacing undertone. I drew inspiration from critic Scott Christianson (1989), who contends that through the use of colloquialisms, similes and emotive metaphors writers of the hardboiled subgenre express their understanding and view of society, project their and their protagonists’ independence, and assert “language as power” (p. 151). To develop this voice required establishing an authenticity in the characters I had created, and in my writing. However, to convey Carver’s noir world also required me to look further than merely the lead character, to domestic places and work spaces. Therefore, in the final chapter: Place, I focussed on concepts concerning place, space and home.

To investigate how these concepts were explored in an Australian context, I considered how they could be applied within the small coastal town of Lorne and its bourgeois cultural milieu, and secondarily in the nearby, post-industrial city of Geelong. To set the narrative in these two locations enabled me to explore how Carver, as a male narrating protagonist, could negotiate these spaces, but also how he, and the others characters became formed by these sites. This then led me examine how crime(s) reflect the social milieu in which they occur and how this relationship between crime and place could be used to create a plausible plot.

To illustrate a sense of verisimilitude in events and places, I examined the dichotomy between, and conflation of, Geelong and Lorne. In doing so, I investigated the topography of Geelong as a post-industrial regional city and how this changing socio-cultural and economic landscape affects the protagonist. Here, I found John Wiley’s (2007) concept of landscape beneficial as it articulates a mutual embeddedness between the individual and the environment in which they interact. This concept then led me to use Carver’s voice and subject position as a reflection of Geelong as it emerges from an industrial centre to a gentrified city. Thus, I recognised that as the city recreates itself through its service sector Carver must become an active participant of this transition. Consequently, Carver becomes a man caught between the past and

353 the present. It is in this in-between space that he is required to negotiate the course of his investigation and his relationships.

Creating both the novel and exegesis enabled me to critically reflect on the nature of this new work. To develop the protagonist, I have sought to create a character who could become both recognisable and enduring within Australian crime fiction. Utilising a practice-led research methodology, I have made substantial progress in my writing, both creatively and critically. Subsequently, I aim to continue my research in detective fiction, and investigate expressions of masculinity within post-industrial landscapes and how this may be articulated and nuanced in crime fiction.

I feel I have produced an original contribution to knowledge in how an analysis of masculinity in the post-industrial landscape of an Australian regional city can be examined in hardboiled detective-noir crime fiction, but also offer the novel to prospective publishers, with the intention of developing a series featuring my protagonist, Frank Carver, PI.

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