brain.
He who hesitates is lost. Who dares wins. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I started humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’.
I was going in.
I paid thirty-seven bucks to get my car out of the World Trade Centre car park then cruised through South Melbourne and onto Beaconsfield Parade. I’d gotten the Wades’ Brighton address from my copy of Emery’s contract.
The Indian summer of the day before had given way to more typical Melbourne weather. Clouds scudded across the sky and one second it was warm, the next freezing cold. Wind shook the palm trees and whipped the bay into foamy grey peaks. Riders and rollerbladers persevered along the bike path next to the shore, rugged up in leggings and jackets.
I had the radio switched to Triple J until St Kilda, when they started playing god-awful Australian rap and I slipped in a tape of my favourite band, Doug Mansfield and the Dust Devils. Doug sang, ‘I don’t follow trouble, trouble follows me,’ and I considered adopting it as my own personal anthem.
In Brighton I turned right off St Kilda Street onto a road that ran down to the beach. All the houses were huge, set back from the street, and there were a lot of big old trees. I hated to think how much a joint here would cost. More than I could afford in ten lifetimes.
The Wades’ place was right down the end, with one side facing the road and the other the ocean. It was a restored Federation house on a double block with a sweeping verandah and a spiky iron fence.
I parked outside, found the gate locked, pressed a button on the intercom and checked out the front yard while I waited. Delicate white roses bordered an expanse of soft green lawn, a willow tree shaded a carved stone bench and I wouldn’t have been surprised if Hugh Grant had bounded out holding a croquet mallet and invited me for a game.
Just as I decided no one was home, the box crackled into life:
‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice.
‘Mrs. Wade?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m terribly sorry to drop by unannounced—’ my voice had gone all plummy to fit the surroundings—‘but I’m one of the investigators your husband hired in the matter of your daughter.
My name is Simone Kirsch.’
A long pause. ‘Oh yes,’ she said.
‘There’s something I’d like to ask you, but I’d rather not talk about it out on the street.’
A longer pause, then a buzz and the gate swung in. I crunched up the gravel drive and onto a wide verandah composed of thousands of tiny hexagonal tiles in ochre and dark green. Mrs. Wade waited behind the security door, peering through the bars. She was in her fifties, slender and drawn, with a blonde bob and skin so thin that purple veins fluttered at her temples. When I looked into her pale blue eyes I realised why her reactions were slowed down. Her pupils were pinned, like a smackie’s, but my guess was a truckload of prescription downers.
‘Mrs. Wade, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I met Tamara during the course of my investigations and I liked her. She was a nice girl.’
Susan Wade smiled in a vague sort of way and brushed a nonexistent lock of hair from her forehead.
I spoke slowly so she could keep up. ‘A friend of Tamara’s has gone missing and I’m worried. I need a phone number to track her down and the only way I can do that is by taking a look at Tamara’s mobile. Is it here with her things?’
‘I don’t know. There are quite a few boxes.’
‘Would it be possible for me to look through them? I’ll find the number and be out of your way before you know it. It would be a big help.’
‘I’d better call my husband.’
Shit. No way would Emery Wade want me poking around his house. ‘Uh, I’ve just been around to his office and he said he’d like to help in any way he could.’
‘Oh.’ She reached down and unlocked the door, hand moving like an astronaut’s in zero gravity. ‘Just this way.’
Susan Wade wore a cream silk blouse tucked into tan trousers, cream pumps and fine gold
He who hesitates is lost. Who dares wins. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I started humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’.
I was going in.
I paid thirty-seven bucks to get my car out of the World Trade Centre car park then cruised through South Melbourne and onto Beaconsfield Parade. I’d gotten the Wades’ Brighton address from my copy of Emery’s contract.
The Indian summer of the day before had given way to more typical Melbourne weather. Clouds scudded across the sky and one second it was warm, the next freezing cold. Wind shook the palm trees and whipped the bay into foamy grey peaks. Riders and rollerbladers persevered along the bike path next to the shore, rugged up in leggings and jackets.
I had the radio switched to Triple J until St Kilda, when they started playing god-awful Australian rap and I slipped in a tape of my favourite band, Doug Mansfield and the Dust Devils. Doug sang, ‘I don’t follow trouble, trouble follows me,’ and I considered adopting it as my own personal anthem.
In Brighton I turned right off St Kilda Street onto a road that ran down to the beach. All the houses were huge, set back from the street, and there were a lot of big old trees. I hated to think how much a joint here would cost. More than I could afford in ten lifetimes.
The Wades’ place was right down the end, with one side facing the road and the other the ocean. It was a restored Federation house on a double block with a sweeping verandah and a spiky iron fence.
I parked outside, found the gate locked, pressed a button on the intercom and checked out the front yard while I waited. Delicate white roses bordered an expanse of soft green lawn, a willow tree shaded a carved stone bench and I wouldn’t have been surprised if Hugh Grant had bounded out holding a croquet mallet and invited me for a game.
Just as I decided no one was home, the box crackled into life:
‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice.
‘Mrs. Wade?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m terribly sorry to drop by unannounced—’ my voice had gone all plummy to fit the surroundings—‘but I’m one of the investigators your husband hired in the matter of your daughter.
My name is Simone Kirsch.’
A long pause. ‘Oh yes,’ she said.
‘There’s something I’d like to ask you, but I’d rather not talk about it out on the street.’
A longer pause, then a buzz and the gate swung in. I crunched up the gravel drive and onto a wide verandah composed of thousands of tiny hexagonal tiles in ochre and dark green. Mrs. Wade waited behind the security door, peering through the bars. She was in her fifties, slender and drawn, with a blonde bob and skin so thin that purple veins fluttered at her temples. When I looked into her pale blue eyes I realised why her reactions were slowed down. Her pupils were pinned, like a smackie’s, but my guess was a truckload of prescription downers.
‘Mrs. Wade, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I met Tamara during the course of my investigations and I liked her. She was a nice girl.’
Susan Wade smiled in a vague sort of way and brushed a nonexistent lock of hair from her forehead.
I spoke slowly so she could keep up. ‘A friend of Tamara’s has gone missing and I’m worried. I need a phone number to track her down and the only way I can do that is by taking a look at Tamara’s mobile. Is it here with her things?’
‘I don’t know. There are quite a few boxes.’
‘Would it be possible for me to look through them? I’ll find the number and be out of your way before you know it. It would be a big help.’
‘I’d better call my husband.’
Shit. No way would Emery Wade want me poking around his house. ‘Uh, I’ve just been around to his office and he said he’d like to help in any way he could.’
‘Oh.’ She reached down and unlocked the door, hand moving like an astronaut’s in zero gravity. ‘Just this way.’
Susan Wade wore a cream silk blouse tucked into tan trousers, cream pumps and fine gold
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