Felicity Young - Take Out

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

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

‘What do we know about him?’

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

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

‘In the glove box.’

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

‘About six foot.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Won’t do you any harm.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Never when I’ve been around.’

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

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

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

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

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

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