Alex Palmer - The Labyrinth of Drowning

Someone had called, Grace felt certain of it. But too late to stop Marie making preparations to meet her lover, who instead had sent along his watchdog, Kidd, to keep an eye on her. Not much of an exchange for her.

‘Who’s Marie’s boyfriend?’

‘I wouldn’t have a clue. I’ve never seen him and I don’t want to.’

‘Was there anyone there tonight that you recognised? Anyone you’d seen before?’

‘In your mob?’ She grinned. ‘No, no clients. None that I recognised anyway.’

‘It was your more exotic workers who didn’t turn up tonight, wasn’t it? The Asian and African workers.’

Lynette shrugged, waving Grace away with one hand.

‘Does Marie look after them as well?’ she persisted.

‘No. She didn’t have anything to do with them. I handled the bookings and the money, that’s all.’

‘Do those workers cost more?’

‘What do you think?’

‘And do they get paid more as well?’

‘Of course they do.’

‘You’d know that, wouldn’t you? If you look after them,’ Grace said, watching the sudden panic in the woman’s eyes. ‘Let’s assume they’re not getting paid as much as they should. Where does the money go? Do you split it with the owners?’

Lynette put down her glass. ‘That’s it from me. Good night.’

‘Walk away from here and I’ll have you arrested.’

Lynette, half on her feet, slumped back into her chair, tired and frightened. Her make-up seemed to be slipping away.

‘How can you have me arrested?’

‘There’s plenty in what you’ve told me tonight. Harbouring an illegal immigrant for starters. Deprivation of liberty. Now let’s do this the easy way. You answer my questions. You get looked after.’

‘What do you think I can tell you? I’m just front of house. That’s all.’

‘How much do these workers get paid?’

Lynette looked away. ‘They don’t.’

‘You take the money.’

‘I take a percentage. Do you know how old I am? I’m fifty-three. If I don’t get some money together, what I am going to live on ten years from now? The fucking old-age pension?’

Grace ignored this. ‘Why are these workers doing this? There must be something in it for them. Is it a visa? For them or their families?’

‘I don’t know what the deal is. Some of them have other jobs as well, I’m pretty certain about that. They come in, they work a set number of shifts each week, they go home. I handle it. That’s all.’

‘Do you know Jon Kidd? The man who was at the reception desk when I left.’

‘That little shortie? I’ve never seen him before. And that’s a fact. I never have.’

‘Who brings these workers in to meet you?’

‘They come themselves.’ Lynette took a mouthful of wine. ‘They say they’re here to work for Amelie. I know what that means and I look after them from then on. The money they make gets recorded separately against their names. I send it off to the accountants. They deal with it and then I get my bit at the end of the month. In cash.’

‘They just front up out of the blue? You don’t know they’re coming.’

‘All right. I get a note from the accountant. It comes in a sealed envelope. If they don’t front, I have to send a letter back saying so.’

Someone tells them they’d better be there if they know what’s good for them, Grace thought. And if they don’t or won’t listen to that advice, what happens then?

‘Do they always turn up?’

‘Yeah,’ Lynette said. ‘Except one. That was just a month ago. Another African girl. I had her picture. She was a stunner.’

‘Do you still have the picture?’

‘No, I sent it back when she didn’t turn up.’

‘What was her name?’

‘I wasn’t given a name. I don’t get names for any of them and I don’t ask. We settle on a working name when they get there.’

‘What happened to the one who didn’t turn up?’

‘I don’t know and I didn’t ask.’

‘Why didn’t Marie handle these workers?’

‘Because she doesn’t know her arse from her elbow.’

‘But you do. You’ve been in this business for years. How long have you been working at Life’s Pleasures? Has this been going on all the time you’ve been there?’

‘All my fucking life, it feels like. Three years.’ Lynette had stood up. She was crying. ‘Yes, it’s been going on the whole time. I got paid for it, didn’t I? You can have me arrested now. I don’t give a shit. I’m walking away. I need to get some sleep.’

‘One last question. Did Coco have a wedding ring when she was with you?’

‘Is that a joke? What would she do with that?’

And she was gone, leaving behind an empty glass and carafe and a full ashtray.

Grace walked out to her car, passing a man a distance away from her on his way in. She glanced at him but he was heading for the bar. In her car, she rang the control centre.

‘Did you get that conversation?’

‘We did,’ the operative replied. ‘What’s the request now?’

‘We need to pick her up for questioning ASAP. Her movements need to be monitored and Clive needs to be notified as well. We should pick her up before tomorrow morning at the latest if we can. We also need to notify the police. Can you forward them a transcript of everything that was said tonight? And we need to check Jacqueline Ryan’s mobile phone records for any calls to Thailand.’

‘Will do,’ the operative said. ‘I’ll send that request for a team through now.’

‘Thanks. I’m off duty. You can close my wire down. Call me if you need me.’

‘Okay.’

Grace was tired and it was late. She hadn’t seen Ellie that evening and by now she would be in bed, hopefully asleep. She felt jaded; she didn’t like badgering worn-out, middle-aged women in desperate circumstances, it made her feel grubby. When she got home she would wash off her make-up and become herself. But wasn’t this who she was, with or without the pancake? The hard-faced operative? Orion had extraordinary powers. Those powers were hers to exercise even if they broke people’s lives apart. This was the tightrope she had to walk: find the killers without doing too much damage to herself or anyone else.

She began the drive home, to Harrigan’s Victorian terrace in Birchgrove. His haunted house, she called it; ghosts from his past lived in every room. He had told her to change it as much as she wanted-repaint it, redecorate, whatever she liked. Make it her own. She was working on it, room by room.

It was only after she’d crossed the Gladesville Bridge that she began to wonder if she was being followed. A single light as if from a motorbike seemed to be always at the same distance behind her. Then the light grew closer-a small, agile bike, the kind that slips easily in and out of the traffic. Was it Newell? It couldn’t be. Every police officer in New South Wales would be looking for him. Even he wouldn’t be so mad as to show himself in public right now. And how could he know where she was?

Her mind kept her driving under control but it didn’t stop her fear from growing. The bike came closer; it seemed to be letting her know it was there. She turned on her phone and rang the Orion control centre.

‘I’m fairly certain I’m being followed,’ she said. ‘A bike, small. I can’t see any registration and I’ve got no description of the rider.’

‘Where from?’

‘I first noticed it coming over the Gladesville Bridge. I’m on Victoria Road coming up to Darling Street where I’m turning left. It’s accelerating, coming up beside me, swerving in close.’

‘Take evasive action now.’

‘It’s gone,’ she said.

Suddenly the road was clear. The rider had swerved in dangerously towards her car, then sped past her through the orange light at the intersection of Victoria Road and Darling Street. She hoped her voice hadn’t sounded panicky; it seemed as if it had.