Good Money Read online

  God help me. He knew. He knew.

  How could he know? It was impossible. I took a deep breath. I needed to have another look at that book. But I had to be patient.

  I boarded a city-bound tram and scored a seat to myself. I drank the coffee and stared out at the cold congested streets as the tram conveyed me to my place of work. At a stop along Racecourse Road, I stepped off and walked to the offices of the Western Outer-Region Migrant Support — or WORMS. The organisation rented a shopfront on Wellington Street next to the Flemington Police Station. The place was deserted. We’d lost half our staff in two years. Those lucky few who had hung onto their jobs, it seemed, were currently either at meetings or seeing clients.

  I went to brief Boss about Mrs Chol. His name was Brendan Ogg-Simmons, so we called him Boss. Also, he was my boss. He was short and balding, with an accountant wife and two young children. Despite this, he was usually cheerful.

  ‘Before you say anything, Hardy, you need to put a visit from Pukus in your diary. Next Monday.’

  ‘Next as in next week?’

  ‘No. That’s this Monday — I mean the one after.’

  ‘That Monday’s a holiday, Boss.’ Public holidays were highlighted in my calendar. ‘The Queen, birthday girl.’

  ‘Tuesday then.’

  State politics was a bore, but I knew who Pukus was. I’d even met him. He was Marcus Pugh, formerly the Human Services minister, until a recent cabinet reshuffle had put him in charge of the Victorian police force. He used to swan into our program launches, take the credit, drink a cup of tea, pose for a photo with some unsuspecting woman in a headscarf, and then swan out. Pukus, we called him — Mucous Pukus.

  I made a note on my phone, and added a sad-face emoticon next to it. ‘Isn’t he Police Minister now?’

  Boss sighed. ‘Yes. Just when we thought we’d seen the back of him, this time he’s here announcing the new partnership between Justice and Community Services.’

  ‘Speaking of justice … Mrs Chol, she’s going to need ongoing support. If they arrest someone, she’ll need guidance just to get through the hearings, the trial — handle the media.’

  Often in these situations, Boss would start saying that he couldn’t spare me, how the cuts stymied every program the agency ran, how we all had to do more with less. But this time, he surprised me. ‘Justice has announced some funding. New money. Migrants affected by crime. Put together a submission and I’ll sign it today.’

  I went to my desk and found a yellow envelope with my name on it sitting on the keyboard: the usual guff about the next round of redundancies being unavoidable — the agency was looking for volunteers to take a package. A part of me wanted to go, right then and there, to clear my few possessions and drop my pass card on Boss’s desk. Instead, I wrote the damn submission.

  At lunchtime, I dropped into the police station next door to see Raewyn Ross.

  Some new guy, a baby-face with the measurements of a knitting needle, scoffed at my enquiry. ‘The Khaleesi? Not here. Probably taken a sickie.’

  ‘Khaleesi, as in —’

  ‘Game of Thrones.’ The needle smirked.

  He was in the place five minutes and had already joined in disrespecting Ross. I let it slide. ‘Homicide been to visit Mrs Chol yet? Collected Adut’s stuff?’

  He looked at me like I was speaking Lithuanian. ‘Couldn’t tell you.’ I waited with raised eyebrows. He sighed. ‘Want me to ask?’

  ‘Not to worry.’ I made it to the door before I turned around. ‘“The Khaleesi”. Is that —?’

  ‘Yep. Irony.’

  A door opened behind him and a disembodied voice said, ‘Mrs Chol is at the coroner’s. Plain clothes told me, said he was taking her.’

  It was wishful thinking, but maybe, just maybe, the plain clothes detective was so busy helping Mrs Chol through the process, that he hadn’t ordered Adut’s room to be cleared yet. In any case, with Mrs Chol not at home, there was no way to get into her flat. I said my thanks and walked back to work. Tomorrow it would have to be.

  The rest of the day, I rang clients and answered emails. At five o’clock, one of our regulars came into our waiting room and fell asleep. Boss and I tried to rouse him, but he wouldn’t budge. This vexed me as I had plans to get home, drink half a cask of wine, and watch The Walking Dead. Boss called the Salvation Army while I tried to get some sense out of our guest. We tried to get him walking, and had an arm each when he decided to vomit down the front of his shirt. My gag reflex wanted to join in. Then he shat himself. I unrolled a kilometre of paper towel.

  It was past seven when I finally walked into the foyer of my building. Letters jutted from my letterbox. I juggled my bag and sorted through them: bill, bill, catalogue, postcard. Postcard? I checked the address: wrong flat. I read the message — We’re having the best time! Just love Fiji!!! Joyce and Frank — and dropped it in the correct slot, feeling put out. Fix your sloppy handwriting, Joyce. Can’t tell your 5s from your 9s.

  I flicked the lights, cranked up the heater, and put two slices of bread in the toaster. I had only just opened the fridge door when I heard the modest tap that Tania used for a knock on the door. I let her in, and she brought her fresh-faced, sweet-smelling joie de vivre with her. She had ten centimetres on me in flats — and she wasn’t wearing flats — so I had to tilt my head back to see her white teeth smiling down at me. She handed me a bottle. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Acceptable. You?’

  ‘Awesome.’

  ‘Come off it.’

  ‘Not gonna lie. I like my job.’

  ‘The paring of human skin? Inhaling carcinogenic chemicals?’ I opened a cupboard, took down two glasses, and started twisting the bottle cap. The cap was stubborn; I couldn’t gain any purchase on it. Since last night, everything sucked — I couldn’t even think straight, let alone open a bottle. All I could think, over and over, was how could Adut have found out? There must have been a witness. Someone living in the flats. Everything was coming apart — except the damn bottle cap. I wrenched it, and drew red welts across my palm to no avail.

  Tania bit her lip. ‘It’s a cork,’ she said tentatively.

  ‘Really?’ I looked at the label: Beaujolais Village. No local gut-rot for Tania. She favoured French wine, and it was always excellent. ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Do you know when they’re going to fix the security door on this building?’

  I found a corkscrew and started screwing. ‘When? You mean if. It’s been like that since I moved here.’

  This news displeased her considerably. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have signed the lease if I thought the security was compromised.’

  ‘Compromised? Ha! This isn’t the Pentagon.’

  ‘But don’t the other tenants care?’

  I thought about them — the ones I knew well. ‘Nope.’ Not even the owner-occupiers like me and Brown.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘I mean, concerned.’

  I poured her a glass of wine, trying not to laugh. ‘Not really.’ I tried to reassure her. ‘You’re safe with me around. I killed a sheep with a knife once.’

  ‘Stella!’

  ‘I’m not proud of it.’

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.’

  ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘Your feet. I bet we’re the same size.’

  I studied her face: she seemed genuine. ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve got these shoes. I was going to chuck them out, but —’

  This time I laughed, full and free. It had been a while, and it came out as a squawk.

  ‘They’re too tight across the toes, but I bet they’d fit you.’ She beamed at me.

  There was much wrong with this state of affairs. Her excessive generosity, for one thin
g. The fact that my toes were hidden inside a pair of Blundstone boots, for another.

  ‘They’re in my flat,’ she was saying. ‘I’ll go and get them.’

  ‘No rush,’ I said. She didn’t hide her disappointment. So I added, ‘But I was just thinking how fabulous your taste in shoes is.’

  ‘Oh my God! I know!’ She looked at them admiringly for a moment. Then she addressed me. ‘Stella, I have loads of clothes you could borrow, and nice shoes. And, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I was going to suggest a makeover.’

  ‘But you look fine.’

  ‘Not me …’

  My mobile trilled. Saved, I thought, by the default ringtone. I swiped the screen. It was Mrs Chol: ‘Stella, the police are here.’

  I held my breath. They were probably conducting a thorough search. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

  ‘No. It is all right. My brothers are here with me now. Stella, listen, I need to tell you something.’

  All I could think was that Mrs Chol was about to reveal the existence of the book, with the cops standing in her lounge room listening to every word. ‘No!’ I shrieked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I mean, I’m doing something. Can I call you back?’ I put down the phone, and found Tania staring at me.

  ‘You’ve gone grey.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘In the face.’ She gestured at my head. ‘You’re all sweaty. Are you okay?’

  I had trouble focusing. ‘Sorry, Tania. I think I need to have an early night.’

  ‘Yes, I think you do.’ She stood by my door then turned back to me, an anxious expression blighting her perfect facial structure.

  ‘Would you like me to walk you home?’ I said, half joking. Three steps, and we were there.

  ‘Yes, please. That would be brilliant.’

  I chocked open my door and we went out. The stairwell was in darkness. The third-floor collective was quiet. Brown Cardigan in 9 had the TV on low volume; and Amber and Jack, the joined-at-the-hip hipsters from number 11, were in Hobart at some music festival. I waited while Tania turned her key in the door to flat number 12. Once inside, she wished me well and shut the door. I heard a bolt slide, a second lock snap shut, and the chain slide into place.

  I smiled a little at her nervousness. Melbourne wasn’t dangerous; it wasn’t up there with New Delhi or Caracas. But as I walked back to my flat, I realised that, despite her skittishness, I liked having Tania around. Flat 12 had been empty for ages, and it gave the third floor a cold, creepy vibe. Then, a couple of months ago, Brown reported seeing a young woman carrying boxes inside, and concluded brilliantly that the flat had been leased. At first I was wary of this apparent interloper and interrogated Brown for information, but all he had managed to learn was that she was from Western Australia. But then I bumped into her in the foyer one evening, and she tottered towards me on spiky heels, offering her hand. ‘It’s Tania, by the way. Bradshaw.’

  I gave her cold mitt a hearty shake. ‘Stella Hardy.’

  ‘I know, the old guy told me.’

  ‘What? The gossipy old bastard. Better watch what you tell him.’

  ‘Totally!’

  Brown had said she was pretty — a colossal understatement. If I‘d had to guess, I’d have said TV journalist, or fashion ambassador to a large department store. Turned out she was a beauty therapist. She seemed tolerable, but was kind of ingratiating. Or I was a soft touch. In any case, she inveigled an invite, and we drank a bottle of wine at my place one Thursday. Somehow it became a regular Thursday thing. It was my favourite day of the week to get a skinful. No one cared if you came to work with a hangover on a Friday. Who did work on a Friday?

  Once inside, I called Mrs Chol.

  ‘What have the police found?’ I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  ‘They have found the man,’ she said. ‘The alleged man.’

  The news was good, excellent, and so fast. Yet I felt panicked. ‘Who?’

  ‘The police received a call to go to a house in Deer Park.’

  ‘An anonymous tip-off?’

  ‘Yes. The man lives there with his mother. They did a search and found Adut’s phone. Wait a minute.’ I waited. She came back. ‘The police lady wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Hardy?’

  ‘Ross? I thought you called in sick?’

  ‘No. Who told you that?’

  ‘No one. Wires crossed. What do you have?’

  ‘Blood-stained clothes and the likely murder weapon. They’ve got him in the cells.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Darren “Clacker” Pickering. They’re charging him with murder.’

  3

  MY WATCH and handbag were conveyed in a plastic tray through an X-ray machine the size of a truck. As my belongings emerged, a guard opened my bag, and took out a teaspoon I kept for emergency yoghurt-snacking and put it behind the counter. I rushed under the metal-detecting arch to confront him.

  ‘Oh, good on you! Can’t be too careful with spoons. Lethal. I could use it to tap His Honour on the noggin like a boiled egg.’

  The guard folded his arms and smiled with the smug righteousness of those with limited power. I waved my newly received Department of Justice ID at him, but he was unmoved. I glared at him, snatched my bag, and headed to court, struggling with my watchstrap. By the time I entered the courtroom it was nearly full. I saw Mrs Chol in the public gallery and eased past her supporters, neighbours, and relatives, to sit beside her. She gave me a grateful look and a quick squeeze of my hand. I had to look away; since the night of Adut’s murder last week, my obsession with his exercise book took the place of proper professional regard for my client — it made me feel like a traitor. If I had managed to get hold of the damn thing, maybe I could concentrate on other things, but every time I went to her place to try and get my hands on it something or someone hindered me. Like Bruce Copeland, the homicide detective who was in charge of the case.

  He sat two rows from us playing a game on his phone. With his tortoise-shell spectacles and good manners, he was more librarian than hardened cop. I liked him because he had been in constant contact with Mrs Chol since Clacker was arrested and she had found him reassuring. But I was also annoyed with him because whenever I went to retrieve the exercise book, bloody Copeland was there and I had to leave empty-handed.

  I glanced around the court. Staff of both legal teams were having last-minute whispered conferences. Clacker stood in the dock. He had a carrot-top with russet freckles and buckteeth. He wore a suit that only made him seem dodgy. The clothes, plus his slouch and botched tattoos were a biography of his childhood poverty, limited education, and time served. His tendency to use an unblinking angelic look, one I’d seen delinquents use many times, was a tell-tale sign that he was lying and gave the impression that Clacker was still a child. He was twenty-nine.

  Verity Spinks, the prosecutor, stood and I leaned forward. There was CCTV footage, she said, that showed Clacker in the area of the Knock Knock restaurant at the time the kitchen hand saw Adut staggering down the alley having suffered fatal knife wounds. Items found in Clacker’s house included Adut’s phone, a knife matching the murder weapon, a large amount of cash, a small quantity of marijuana, and twenty grams of the drug commonly referred to as ‘ice’. It was, she concluded, a straight-forward case of aggravated robbery, resulting in the tragic death of a promising young teenager.

  The grave personage of Finchley Price, dark-haired with a touch of grey at the temples, was barrister for the defence. He denied the significance of all of the prosecutor’s evidence. He sighed, shook his head, used the word circumstantial, and said he was bewildered as to why we were here wasting His Honour’s time.

  At one point, I drifted off and started planning my evening — a two-step programme: go home, hit the cardboard. The
disturbing thought arose that perhaps the wine cask in the fridge was empty, in which case, new plan: hit the bottle shop.

  Eventually His Honour signalled he was ready to make his pronouncement. It appeared he did not like to see time wasted either. ‘I find sufficient evidence for the defendant Darren Clyde Pickering to stand trial for the murder of Adut Chol.’

  Darren’s mother pointed at him. ‘You lyin’ fuckin cunt.’

  At that moment the gallery erupted. Clacker’s supporters were yelling abuse at the magistrate, the press, everyone. Security guards and several cops stormed in and started removing people. His Honour called for calm, pounding the desk like a carpenter on crack.

  Mrs Chol accepted words of comfort from her supporters, and when the courtroom was cleared we went out together. Near the main entrance, Copeland was waiting for us. He clasped her hands in both of his. ‘Do you understand the verdict?’

  ‘Yes, Bruce,’ said Mrs Chol.

  ‘There’ll be a trial. It’s a way to go yet, but we’ll get there.’

  ‘Thank you, Bruce,’ she said.

  Copeland gave a sad little smile and pushed his glasses back. He shot me a parting look — for what, I didn’t know — and went out, where the waiting media mobbed him.

  We waited inside until the photographers and journalists who were surrounding Copeland had gone further along the street. The day was becoming gloomy, and low clouds gathered over the city. Heavy drops of rain splattered around us as we went down the steps of the old court building.

  ‘How’s Mabor?’

  She frowned. ‘Quiet.’

  ‘Back at school?’

  ‘Yes. He walks his sisters to the primary school then he goes on by himself to high school.’

  ‘Maybe I should come over and see how he’s going? Like tonight? How’s tonight?’