Scarlet Stiletto - the First Cut Page 6

  The man in the pub, sitting there with his scotch and coke and no conscience, is a drug dealer. Big time manufacturer and trafficker of methamphetamine. Close cohort of bikies and crims. Not known to the public. Not interested in becoming a legend like other crims in Melbourne. Quiet, unobtrusive. And a murderer.

  His name is Byron Penrose. Byron! Of all the names for a criminal! His friends lack the education to appreciate the irony and call him Slasher. There’s a story attached to the nickname, but it’s unpleasant, just as you’d imagine.

  I tap my left foot on the concrete beneath me and think. Debate with myself and fiddle with the mobile. Finally I punch in a number as familiar to me as my own name.

  “Brett Johnson.”

  “Johnno, it’s Lizzie. Guess who just walked into the pub?”

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Slasher Penrose.”

  There’s a barely perceptible intake of breath and a pause.

  “Are you sure?”

  There is a cautious note in his voice and I grimace.

  “Johnno, I’ve been depressed, not delusional.”

  He sighs. “I’m not doubting you.”

  I flick ash from my cigarette and watch as it tumble-turns in the breeze.

  “Okay, Lizzie. I’m on my way.”

  The line goes dead. I stub my cigarette onto the concrete below and head back to the pub.

  Percy and Gil are waiting expectantly with empty glasses. Slasher is nowhere to be seen. In between me leaving the park bench and walking back to the bar, he’d gone.

  Johnno and Mick swing through the front door. Mick with slicked-back dark hair like a seal and Johnno with short dark-blonde hair. Dark suits and dark sunglasses. Johnno catches my eye. He tilts his head towards one end of the bar, away from Percy and Gil.

  “Where is he?” he asks.

  “Gone now,” I say.

  Mick cocks an eyebrow at Johnno. “Are you sure it was him?” asks Johnno.

  I fold my arms tightly across my chest, sensing that a nervous breakdown has now labelled me as being flaky. Mick is unable to meet my eyes.

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Johnno picks up on my body language. “We’re not doubting you, Lizzie. We just need to be sure you’re right.”

  A dry cough interrupts us. We look down the bar and Percy is facing us.

  “The lady copper’s right. He was here.”

  “Who was?” asks Mick.

  “Slasher Penrose.”

  I smile at Percy. “You’ve just earned yourself a freebie, Perce.”

  Johnno shrugs. “Well, I guess we’ll start checking out all his old haunts.”

  Mick put on his blank copper’s face. He says, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Like he can’t believe the word of two drunks and one nervous wreck. Johnno turns to me as he leaves. “Stay in touch, Lizzie.”

  After they are gone, I pour Percy and Gil two pots.

  “You called me a ‘lady copper’, Perce. How’d you know?”

  Percy and Gil dissolve into phlegmy laughter. They sit in front of me cackling like emphysemic hens. Percy’s laughter subsides and he says, “Once a copper, always a copper.”

  True enough.

  Hours later, I finish my shift and go home to an empty flat. I’m living with my mother. A woman in her sixties with the social life I had in my twenties. Tonight is bingo night.

  In the shower I wash away the ever-present smell of stale beer and post-mix coke. I stand in the middle of the torrent of hot water and my body trembles. Slasher Penrose. Where had that bastard been?

  When I first learned of Slasher Penrose, I’d just started a six-month secondment with the Drug Squad. Our major project was getting enough evidence to bring him down.

  I turn off the shower but linger in the damp warmth and semi-darkness. If it wasn’t so uncomfortable I would have curled up to lie on the tiles.

  It all seemed so straightforward. One of our undercover operatives was to meet with Slasher in a warehouse in Fitzroy and pay for a kilogram of methamphetamine. Johnno and I placed listening devices in the warehouse and wired our operative for sound. Everything was set for the bust. Slasher was waiting in the warehouse and we were waiting nearby to make the arrest.

  I wrap myself in a towel and pad from the bathroom to my bedroom. Throw back the doona and jump in my bed. Damp and naked. Scared and lonely.

  Into the middle of our set-up wandered a sixteen-year-old girl, innocently making her weekly secret rendezvous with a boy her parents hated. She crawled through a camouflaged hole into the warehouse. A hole none of us knew about. Crawled through the hole and straight into Slasher. He reacted by pulling out a gun and shooting her. He ran and disappeared into the laneways of Fitzroy before we could react.

  We were left with a mess. There was no evidence that Slasher had been in the warehouse. He hadn’t spoken so our tapes were useless. We hadn’t taken photos of him arriving and our undercover cop hadn’t seen him. Slasher was nowhere to be found. All his family and friends swore black and blue that he hadn’t been around for days. That they thought he had been interstate.

  From there on in, my life began to unravel.

  I drag myself off my bed and pull on my flannel pyjamas. My mirror mocks me. Who’s the fairest of them all? Not me. Not right now. Pale skin and dull eyes. Hair that hangs like a tattered curtain past my shoulders.

  There was an internal investigation into our disastrous operation. My husband chose that moment to leave me a blunt goodbye note. One morning in the shower I started crying and couldn’t stop. The Force agreed to give me a year’s leave without pay.

  So here I am. Thirty-seven years of age, living with my mum and working part time in a pub. In three weeks’ time, my year’s leave without pay will be over and I’ll have to decide my future. Stay in blue, or move on. Right now I can’t even decide what to have for dinner.

  On my days off, I like to sit in other people’s pubs. I am sitting in possibly the second grungiest pub in Melbourne. There are two old drunks at the bar and the barmaid is studying the room like she is empress of all she surveys. A couple of old timers are sitting at a nearby table, huddled over the form guide. A battered transistor radio sits between them, squawking like a parrot. I occupy my time by doing the crossword in one of the daily newspapers.

  Midway through the crossword, the door swings open. I look up. It’s Slasher. What is going on? For the past week, half of Victoria Police had been unable to find neither hide nor hair of this man and I seem to have a Slasher magnet on me. He is not alone. My legs twitch, ready to turn and run, and I can feel my heart flip into a calypso beat. I grip my pen until my knuckles gleam white and will myself to stay put.

  Slasher and his companion sit at the table close to mine. Slasher sits with his back to me. The other man goes to the bar and asks for two scotch and cokes. As he walks back, I give him a surreptitious glance from under my eyelashes. He is in his midthirties and has the bloated features of a man who has enjoyed the high life. He’s not bad-looking; I can tell he was once handsome. Now he hides his thickening waist underneath a baggy floral shirt. He seems familiar. I go through my mental files and can’t find a match. I definitely know him from the past.

  Slasher and the younger man talk with their heads together. Their voices low and urgent. I fix my eyes on the crossword and nibble the end of my pen, while my ears strain to pick up crumbs of the conversation. I pretend to scribble letters into the empty boxes. It is difficult to hear anything but I catch a few words. Nothing that makes any sense. My head aches from trying to listen and trying to remember from where I know the other man.

  An old timer has a win and whoops with pleasure. He proclaims that all drinks are on the house. Last of the big spenders.

  Slasher and his friend finish their drinks and seem to come to an agreement. They stand and head for the door. A glint of metal catches my eye and I notice a gold object dangling from the belt of the younger man. I recognise it as an old memb
ership medallion from a nightclub that was popular in the late nineties. A light bulb goes off and I realise who the younger man is. And, coupled with the handful of words I picked up from their conversation, I have an idea of what is going on.

  The younger man is Mark O’Toole. Back in ‘97, he used to be a regular feature in the doorway of a number of King Street nightclubs. There was always rumour and innuendo that, apart from providing security, he was involved in criminal activity but because he was always on the periphery of the action, the police ignored him to chase the bigger fish. I’d heard ages ago that Mark was now part owner in a couple of clubs in Melbourne. A leap from the periphery to the nucleus.

  I sit back in my chair and ask myself what I think a meth-amphetamine dealer and a nightclub owner would be up to. I answer myself.

  Fake Ecstasy.

  It hadn’t taken the methamphetamine manufacturers in Victoria long to cash in on the popularity of Ecstasy. Since the late nineties, the market had been flooded with fakes made with methamphetamine and a mixture of other powdered substances like paracetamol and seasickness tablets. It appears that Slasher is now busy staking a claim in the business.

  After Slasher has gone, I pull out my mobile phone and creep off to the toilets. In one of the grimy cubicles, I ring Johnno. I sigh as I listen to his voicemail message.

  “I’m at the Pier Hotel. Slasher was just here. He had someone else with him. Remember Mark O’Toole? No prizes for guessing what they’re up to. Anyway, I heard a couple of things. They’re meeting tonight at 10 p.m. Unfortunately all I heard about the meeting place was that is a car park behind a shed. Give me a call when you can.”

  I come home to an empty flat. Mum is at ballroom dancing. I heat up a piece of two-day-old barbeque chicken pizza in the microwave, before flopping onto the couch. My head throbs. I peek at my wrist watch. The nightly news will be starting in ten minutes. I reach for the remote control and switch on the television. Light and colour flicker before my tired eyes. Loud voices exhort me to buy, buy, buy. The news starts, although I barely register what’s going on. Something about local politicians brawling over taxes. News, déjà vu. The faces change but the script is always the same. The news finishes with the usual good news story. Smiling faces and positive chat. An exhibition of some sort at the Melbourne Exhibition Centre. The camera pans along the rectangular grey building with its sloping roof. A pinprick of interest wakes me from my stupor. The Exhibition Centre was commissioned by the previous State government, by the previous Premier, Jeff Kennett. At the time it copped the nickname ‘Jeff’s Shed’ and it has stuck.

  I go out to my car and bring back the Melways road map. The patchwork of black and blue lines shows me that there is a car park behind the Exhibition Centre, close to the Yarra River. The Exhibition Centre is also not far away from the nightclub district in King Street. I smile in amusement to note that the car park is also across the river from Victoria Police headquarters. I close the Melways and lean back on the couch. So, do I take this seriously? I imagine the tone of Johnno’s voice after telling him my hunch. Definitely not worth the humiliation. I have two options. I can ignore my hunch and settle in for the evening. Or I can do what I’m trained to do.

  For the next hour, I trace figure eights around the furniture. Turning things over and over. Tossing a mental coin. Best two of three. Get a hold of yourself, I say, finally. Just go down there and have a look. Much to gain and nothing to lose. I change out of my sweat-stained t-shirt and into a black long-sleeved top. I put on sturdy work boots and tie my hair back. I have no gun so I arm myself with my mobile phone and a shaky attitude.

  At nine o’clock, I leave a note for mum on the kitchen bench. Don’t wait up. Out chasing drug dealers. I start the car and drive off without waiting for the engine to warm up. If I give myself too much time to think now, I’ll just go back inside.

  The Monday night streets of Melbourne are quiet and full of loitering taxis. I park the car in Whiteman Street, close to where the St Kilda and Port Melbourne trams turn off Clarendon Street. Over the road, the casino burns as bright as ever. The Exhibition Centre, however, is empty and dark. Nothing to exhibit. Nothing to attract attention. I walk around the back of the Centre, through the shadows and the back car park. Past additional exhibition spaces to the main car park. To where I think Slasher’s meeting will take place.

  The car park is expansive and very open, with little foliage to soften its edges. Ten or so cars are dotted about in random parking spaces. I look around for somewhere to hide and come up empty. There are a couple of unoccupied yellow tollbooths but they are too far away from likely meeting spots. On the far side of the car park, running parallel to the Yarra River, is a long line of grey and white buildings. They are business spaces, mainly for event and catering companies. I notice that each business has covered steps leading up to their front doors. Maybe I can wedge myself somewhere behind those stairs. The car park is fairly well lit but in one corner, close to the grey and white buildings, there are patches of darkness caused by broken lights. Not a bad place for a clandestine meeting.

  A quick examination reveals the space under one set of stairs is covered by worn palings in need of repair and a fresh coat of paint. I wiggle a couple of palings loose and squeeze myself into the space under the steps. It’s a quarter to ten and I am squatting among spider webs, used condoms and God knows what else. Empress of all I survey. I peer between the timber slats and have a view of most of the car park.

  A set of headlights illuminates the car park and I hear the dull rumble of a big, old car. Sure enough, a Ford Fairlane sidles up close to where I am hiding. The driver pauses for a moment before rolling the car into a parking spot. The door cracks open and the interior light catches Slasher’s face. My eyes widen in disbelief. My hunch has paid off. Slasher lights up a cigarette and leans against the bonnet of his car. Arms crossed, he waits.

  I edge back from my viewing position and pull out my mobile phone. I dial Johnno’s number with trembling fingers. Again, I get his voice mail. Irritated, I whisper a terse message, telling him where I am and urging him to get himself down here.

  Slasher sits on the bonnet, smoking and waiting. Ten slow minutes meander past and I am developing a cramp in my left calf. I have forgotten just how boring surveillance can be.

  A navy blue Commodore slips in alongside Slasher’s car. Mark O’Toole parks and emerges from the car, a briefcase in his hand. He nods to Slasher and sits beside him on the Fairlane’s bonnet. They exchange a few words and lapse into silence. I frown and wonder if they are waiting for someone else. A few more minutes lumber past. Another car appears and parks beside the Commodore. The driver gets out and I hold my breath as I wait to see who it is. I gasp and tumble backwards, landing in the dirt and dust with a thud. It’s Mick. He opens the boot of his car and pulls out a large leather suitcase. What the hell is going on?

  From where I sit, I can still see the action. I watch, trying to interpret what I’m seeing. I wonder if Mick is undercover but he is dressed as he normally would be as a detective. There is no attempt to behave like anyone other than who he is. Maybe he is trying to get them to think he is a copper gone bad? The more I watch, the more I am confused. And frightened. Mick is over there being Mick. I remember him not being able to meet my eyes and shake my head in disbelief.

  Another thought settles uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. How much of this does Johnno know about? When we were working together, working as partners, Johnno and I told each other everything. And what wasn’t shared, we’d find out about anyway. I don’t want to believe he is involved. But his unanswered mobile phone nags at me. He knows where I am and what I’ve seen. I have to get out of there. I don’t want to find out where Johnno’s heart truly lies.

  The three men head my way. I back into a corner, trying to disappear into the black. Hoping one of them doesn’t look between the cracks of the steps. They thump over my head like a stampede of cattle and open the door. Fear now drives me, picking
at my skin like vultures. I shove aside the wooden palings and throw myself out into the car park. I start to run.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  I turn in fright. Mick stands at the top of the steps, unlit cigarette in one hand and a look of complete surprise on his face.

  “Shit,” he says when he realises who I am. He pulls out a gun and shouts to Slasher and O’Toole. I duck between the cars, desperately searching for the quickest way to escape. Crouching near the driver’s door of O’Toole’s car, I notice he has left his keys in the ignition.

  Keeping low, I open the door and crawl into the car. The window above me shatters and I yelp. Glass confetti covers my head and shoulders, and grinds into the backs of my legs as I sit on the driver’s seat. Fingers wet with sweat, I start the engine. Bullets crack the bonnet and roof of the car. Mick clatters down the steps, yelling and waving his gun. I slam the car into reverse and hit the accelerator. I reverse and keep reversing, keeping my head down and hoping I won’t back into anything. I peer over the dashboard. The three men are diving into Mick’s car. I do a backwards u-turn and put the car into drive ... driving headlong into two police cars, lights flashing and sirens screaming. They swerve around me and skid to a halt. Behind them is an unmarked police car, Johnno at the helm,