Too Easy Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  Acknowledgements

  TOO EASY

  J.M. Green is a crime writer based in Melbourne’s western suburbs. Her debut novel, Good Money, the first hardboiled-crime novel featuring Stella Hardy, was shortlisted for a 2016 Ned Kelly Award, the Sisters in Crime’s Davitt Award for best debut, as well as the 2014 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for an Unpublished Manuscript. She divides her time between writing in her backyard studio and working as a librarian. Too Easy is her second book.

  Scribe Publications

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  First published by Scribe 2017

  Copyright © J.M. Green 2017

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  The moral right of the author of this work has been asserted.

  9781925322026 (Australian edition)

  9781925548181 (e-book)

  A CiP entry for this title is available from the National Library of Australia.

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  For Doreen

  for the love and the stories

  (1931–2016)

  1

  FOOTSCRAY, MIDWEEK, the sun sneaking away as the street lights flickered to life and the coloured bulbs outside the kebab shop burst into a frenzied circuit. To the untrained eye — a visitor, say — the sweep of assorted humanity strolling in the warm evening was a scene of cosmopolitan excitement. To folk who tucked into tabloids, the sight was of the end of days. To an officer of the law, it was a landscape of latent court appearances. To a community worker, such as myself, I surveyed the elaborate greetings and handshakes of this place, as likely to comprise colleagues as clients, with great affection. These were my people.

  I was waiting on the street downstairs from the Narcissistic Slacker, an above-shop studio, domicile, and barely-functional commercial art gallery belonging to the artist known as Peter Brophy. Next minute, Brophy was beside me, hair damp and combed down. There was just time for a quick smooch, then I looked him over. He’d missed a spot shaving, and I couldn’t have loved him more. The shirt was his favourite — brown cotton with white piping, still good after many washes. He tapped his top pocket. ‘All set.’

  ‘What’s in there? Ear plugs?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Cyanide.’

  We laughed, linked arms, and walked through the alley to the car park where he left his van.

  ‘I like Phuong,’ Brophy was saying. And I knew where he was going with that.

  Phuong was a detective with Victoria Police. She was also my oldest friend. How that came about was a mystery. We met at uni, and not long after that, she dropped out and became a cop — yet, we stayed friends. Since then, whatever new directions our lives took, no matter how divergent, we remained tight. She was everything I wasn’t. The epitome of composure, fun without being crazy, straight without being boring. It was her blowhard boyfriend that Brophy and I were bracing ourselves to endure. I had a limit of ten minutes with Detective Bruce Copeland before I felt that one of us had to die.

  The radio on low, we drove to Kensington in silence. We skirted the racecourse, dotted with spring racing marquees, and behind them the twinkling lights, and joyful screams, of the Royal Melbourne Show. My hand out the window, fingers spread to catch the rush of warm air.

  Phuong’s apartment was an entire floor of a warehouse conversion, a bohemian pad with a fake log fire, large driftwood sculptures, and a meditation room.

  ‘Detective Phuong,’ Brophy said as they embraced — his term of endearment for her. My theory was that it served as a reminder. After all, she was a cop, and he an ex-junkie.

  ‘Peter, nice to see you.’ Phuong took off the apron she’d been wearing over a black dress: sheer in places, bling at the neck. She pointed to the fridge, and Brophy went to stack his beer inside. Yma Sumac sang from concealed speakers. Steaming away atop Phuong’s fancy European appliances was evidence of a Vietnamese banquet.

  If I’d made a banquet, it would consist only of Pringles. I’d be running around, possibly screaming, and things would be on fire. Phuong’s kitchen, on the other hand, was ship-shape, and the food, no doubt, would be wholesome. And the good news was that Copeland had not yet arrived. Champagne!

  Phuong served a plate of tasty-looking things, fried in batter. Brophy hesitated. ‘Tofu and mushroom,’ she said. His eyes widened. ‘Everything is veg,’ she assured him.

  I spied a bottle of French champagne in the fridge, and began to tear the foil.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ Brophy asked, removing the cap on a beer.

  ‘I was going to wait for Bruce so we could tell you together.’ She glanced at her watch, blinked. ‘We’re taking the plunge.’

  ‘What?!’ I shrieked as if I’d been smacked. ‘What plunge? Not the marriage plunge?’

  She took that as excitement, and smiled. ‘Is there another kind?’

  ‘But … but … I mean, this is so sudden.’

  ‘Not at all. Truth is, we’ve been waiting for his divorce order to be finalised. He had some financial issues to straighten out in the settlement, but that’s all taken care of now.’

  ‘But … what about your parents? What will they say? Have they even met Copeland? And where will you live? You can’t move out. This is your sanctuary, your refuge of serenity. Where’s Copeland live? Bloody Woop Woop. Come on, Phuong, have you thought this through? You’re not rushing, are you? When is this plunge?’

  The smile slipped. ‘You mean, congratulations.’

  ‘Of course I mean that. This really is just so … great. Such great news.’

  Brophy had consumed most of the hors d’oeuvres. He wiped his hands and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Congratulations to you both.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s been hard to make plans. Since the restructure, Bruce and I hardly see each other.’ Phuong directed her words towards him.

  ‘You moved out of homicide?’ I was stunned.

  ‘Cybercrime,’ she said to Brophy, like I wasn’t there. ‘Bruce is with Guns and Gangs.’

  ‘Good name, “Guns and Gangs”,’ h
e said. ‘Nice alliteration. The gangs are, what? Teenagers?’

  She drew her hair back, looped it into a neat bun. ‘Outlaw motorcycle gangs.’

  Brophy brought me a tofu ball thingy. I dipped it in the sauce. ‘How’s he like that?’ I said.

  She checked her watch again, and didn’t answer. I hoped she wasn’t going to ignore me all night. She sniffed and went to the kitchen. ‘He likes it,’ she said to the stove. ‘But some cops in the unit are leftovers from the drug squad. They’re not exactly … effective.’

  ‘Leftovers’ was a euphemism. She didn’t need to explain that these individuals had relaxed attitudes to the law. And had dodged every previous attempt at a crackdown.

  The door opened and Copeland stumbled in. The middle-aged, gone-to-seed look suited him, made him seem hard-working yet genteel. The black-rimmed glasses made him appear intelligent, almost bland — and that was why, looking back, I’d misjudged him at first. I had failed to see the dangers, failed to grasp that Bruce Copeland had the principles of a cage fighter. ‘Couldn’t find my keys.’ He jangled them, then went to Brophy, hand out. ‘Mate.’

  Brophy stood up straight, shook his hand, and offered him a beer.

  ‘Mate,’ Copeland said again.

  ‘Where were you?’ Phuong asked.

  ‘West Sunshine. Anonymous tip-off about a hydroponic set up. Uniforms found a body in the bathroom. I hung around with the FSD people. Lost track of the time.’

  Forensics, my arse — he stank of the pub. I shot Phuong a look, but she was busy setting table, with twinkling glasses and rolled napkins. I began filling the champagne glasses.

  Copeland registered the movement and boomed at me. ‘Stella Hardy, the woman of the hour. How’re things on the migrant front? Still saving lost souls?’

  The ‘migrant front’ was referring to my job, and ‘saving lost souls’ was an insult. Compassion was for losers, apparently. What an age we lived in. For Phuong’s sake, I was responsive. ‘Hello, Bruce,’ I said from a distance.

  He turned to Phuong. ‘Never guess who the deceased is. Give up? Ricky Peck.’

  Phuong’s sharp inhale startled me. ‘He’s a Flower.’

  ‘A flower?’ I snorted.

  Phuong looked at me at last. I caught the full impact of her ferocious displeasure and turned away.

  ‘A member of the Corpse Flowers,’ Copeland said. ‘Motorcycle gang.’

  ‘Odd name for a bikie gang,’ Brophy was saying. ‘A flower by any other name would smell of a decomposing animal.’

  ‘Laugh all you want,’ Copeland said.

  ‘But Corpse Flower,’ I said. ‘How bad can they be?’

  ‘They’re dangerous people,’ Phuong said. ‘Ricky Peck was untouchable.’

  ‘Someone fucked up,’ Copeland said, drank some beer, and noticed me using a napkin to mop up some wine. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘Nothing. Congratulations, by the way.’

  He squinted at me.

  ‘To you and Phuong.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He raised the stubby to Phuong. ‘Thanks.’

  She gestured to the table. A fragrant broth with floating wontons awaited us. I was at an age when food was everything. It surpassed all joys and entertainments, and this dish was nirvana in soup form. Its magical soothing effect filled me with good will to all. I turned to Copeland. ‘I hear there’s a few bad apples in the ranks?’

  He released a beery puff and patted his chest. ‘That is so,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got it covered. New accountability rules, cross checks for money and evidence.’

  Rules. Yeah, that’ll work. I topped up the champagne glasses.

  ‘How do you even get evidence?’ Brophy asked. ‘Bikie club houses are like a fortress — armour and cameras — how do you infiltrate that?’

  Copeland laughed. ‘Informant. An insider’s turned.’

  ‘A bikie?’ I asked, incredulous.

  ‘No. A go-between, dogsbody type. A low-level dumb-arse.’

  ‘But a guy who knows where the bodies were buried,’ Phuong said.

  ‘Literally, right?’

  ‘His intel’s been top notch. Details on deals and names,’ Phuong said. ‘And some —’

  ‘The investigation’s ongoing,’ Copeland cut her off. ‘Can’t say too much.’

  ‘Is it Jeff Vanderhoek?’ Brophy asked, as he cleared the empty bowls.

  I stopped collecting the spoons and watched Copeland. He sighed. It was Vanderhoek.

  Phuong realised it too; she stared at Brophy in disbelief. ‘How did you figure that?’

  ‘Just guessed. I used to know him years ago. Hadn’t seen him for ages, then I bump into him at the market. Surprised he was still alive, to be honest. Said he’s busy as stink working as a go-fer. Cashed up.’

  Copeland shook his head. ‘Dumb junkie.’

  It wasn’t clear if he meant Jeff Vanderhoek or Brophy.

  ‘Nice friends you have,’ Phuong muttered.

  I dumped the spoons in the sink. Phuong knew Brophy no longer used, not even methadone. I didn’t appreciate the inference.

  Copeland sniffed. ‘Any chance of another beer?’

  ‘In the fridge,’ I said.

  He cocked his head at me as he stood. We locked eyes.

  I don’t remember when this antagonism started. A couple of years ago, maybe? We’d had a bit to do with each other over a murder investigation involving one of my clients. Probably because I’d done a better job of sorting out the situation than the homicide department had. To be fair, I did bait him sometimes. It had something to do with him dating my best friend, and his being entirely unworthy of her.

  Copeland brightened, went over to Brophy, gave his shoulder a slap. ‘What have you nerds been up to?’ he asked. ‘TV binging? Playing Dungeons and Dragons?’

  Brophy took his question as genuine. ‘No time for that, I’m afraid — flat-out painting. I’ve got a show in early November.’

  ‘It’s a huge deal,’ I said, because Brophy wouldn’t. ‘A solo show at a major gallery.’

  ‘Don’t you have your own studio gallery space?’ Phuong asked. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘The Narcissistic Slacker,’ Brophy said.

  Copeland smirked and detached a beer from the plastic wrapper.

  ‘This exhibition is too important for that space. It’s at a Fitzroy gallery, very prestigious.’ I could be his manager at this rate. ‘This Is Not A Drill has international connections.’

  ‘Is Stella your muse?’ Copeland asked. ‘She’s ideal, if you want a bolshy feminazi.’

  I allowed him an obligatory hoot. ‘He doesn’t need a model.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been working with one for a while. I’m working with her again tomorrow,’ Brophy said.

  ‘Wait, who is this person?’ I asked.

  ‘Her name’s Felicity. I did a guest lecture for an art class, and she said she liked my work.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘She modelled for the class, and I had an immediate response to her poses. I’ve started a completely new series of paintings.’

  An immediate response to her poses. What kind of bunkum was that?

  No further conviviality could be squeezed out of the evening, and it wound up soon after that. Brophy said he was working early, first thing. And Copeland was falling asleep in his chair.

  Brophy flipped the blinker at Union Road. ‘How about Jeff Vanderhoek?’

  ‘How do you know him again?’

  ‘Dunno, years ago. We hung out together.’

  ‘Hung out?’

  ‘Scored, used. He saved my life once.’ He looked over to gauge my reaction.

  I stayed calm. ‘How?’

  ‘Called the ambos and gave me mouth-to-mouth till they got there. They hit me with Naloxone and I walked away.’r />
  Brophy nearly dead — I hated to think of it.

  He parked the van, and we headed up to his studio.

  ‘We survived,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘Copeland though,’ I said. Not the plunge, Phuong. Not with him.

  2

  FOR AN artist’s bedroom, Brophy’s was surprisingly tidy. I gave him a gentle nudge and gathered my clothes from the floor. He hauled himself upright in a tangle of sheets. ‘Time is it?’

  ‘Early. I’m going home before I go to work.’

  His bedroom looked onto an alley. Somewhere below, a baby was crying, or a cat perhaps. I leaned out the window, but could see nothing other than industrial-sized bins, and piles of rubbish bags. I closed the window and put my undies on.

  ‘Better get up, too. Get started before Felicity arrives.’ Brophy stood naked, staring into his wardrobe. ‘What to wear …’

  I checked my hair in the mirror: semi-tamed, clean at any rate. I blew Brophy a kiss. ‘Have a good day with your muse.’ I went through the studio, and down the ancient staircase to the street.

  The sky was rosy-pink and the air already balmy. There were a few locals about. I waited for the tram, watching a cop grill a couple of street kids. A girl in a windcheater five sizes too big, pants dirty and frayed. She had a septum piercing and smokes, so there was some money, but worn-out shoes, so cash was mostly tight. The boy next to her looked stunted. He was taking deep drags on a cigarette, which probably didn’t help, but I couldn’t help wondering if childhood malnutrition could be possible in a city like Melbourne.

  ‘What brings you here, sunshine?’ the young constable asked, acting friendly but ready to press charges if need be.

  ‘This isn’t Sunshine,’ the boy said, looking about him, arms spread to display the Paisley Street sights. That’s when I remembered him. He and his mother were regulars at a foodbank I used to take my clients to. He’d been about ten then and shy. He looked older than thirteen now; his black hair was cut short, shaved on the sides.

  The girl shook her head, as though the cop had disappointed her. ‘This is Foot-scray,’ she said, and sighed. How could the cop not know that?

  ‘Smart arse,’ the constable said, but not with real anger.

  ‘Dickhead,’ one of them shrieked, and they turned to leg it.