Читать книгу The Price of Fame - Rowena Cory Daniels - Страница 9

That was where it ended.

'Damn,' Monty muttered. 'I was getting right into it.'

'Me too. Walenski had more of the manuscript on his table. Guess we'll have to go back and eat humble pie.' I felt tired but inspired. Genevieve had been the hardest band member to get a handle on. Now she just sprang off the page. 'Do you realise what we've got here?'

'Yeah.' He held my eyes. 'Joseph Walenski's interpretation of how Pete O'Toole felt and thought. You can see it in the odd mix of attitudes he gives O'Toole.'

'Superimposing his perceptions onto O'Toole? Walenski seems genuine.' I chewed my bottom lip. How far could we trust Walenski's story? I shrugged.

'His portrayal of O'Toole doesn't mesh with the police profile of the taxi driver.'

Monty was right. 'But Walenski knew Pete O'Toole for a year. The police were building a case against him, going on circumstantial evidence. The media had already branded him the killer. I can show you an interview that his ex-wife did that makes him look like a jerk, while she comes off as a saint. Manipulative people can fool their friends and innocent people can be painted in a bad light.'

And I should know. That had been the most frustrating thing about my marriage break-up. People who knew Nathan could not believe he'd done the things he had. I should've called an end to it after 12 months. But I was in denial for ages and, determined to make it work, I always found excuses for him.

Then, when I finally admitted it was over, I lost almost all our shared friends. I'd done such a good job covering, that no one believed me. At least the police let me take out a court order against him. For a while there I couldn't turn a corner without Nathan popping up like a bad smell.

I still had nightmares. Since moving in here they'd gotten worse. Two nights in a row I'd dreamt he was following me through the house haranguing me and, when that didn't work, he'd lunge for me. Sometimes I had scissors in my hands, sometimes I kicked him. But whatever I did, do, it doesn't stop him and I wake in a cold sweat, heart racing, sick to my stomach.

'Earth to Antsy?' Monty searched my face.

I caught myself scratching my palm. I managed a sickly smile.

'Everything okay?'

'Yeah.' I gathered my wits. 'Uh, O'Toole admitted he felt bad about punching Joyce's husband.'

'According to Walenski.'

'Proves my point. O'Toole must have told Walenski the circumstances for him to know about it.'

Monty acknowledged this then shrugged. 'It's weird. I've always thought of the Tough Romantics as famous rock stars. But this guy knew them when they were just kids.'

He'd echoed Arthur's words. I smiled. 'Exactly. Genevieve is coming to life for me, but the dynamics within the band,' I shrugged. It was odd. Genevieve was such a romantic name, yet according to Walenski's book she was just a thin, scared kid battling Tucker over the band's direction. I shuffled the pages into a neat stack. 'It's too late to go 'round to Walenski's tonight. First thing tomorrow?'

'Right. At least now we know why he didn't provide O'Toole's alibi. He didn't want the police to know he was a Chicken Hawk.' Monty saw my expression and took pity on me. 'He preyed on under-age boys.'

'How quaint.' I muttered, 'I've never heard that term before.'

'Naturally,' Monty winked. 'Nan would not approve.'

I grinned. He'd read Nan right. She was an honest-to-god Aussie Battler, bless her cotton socks. She'd worked her fingers to the bone to make ends meet and she'd tried to raise me to be a 'lady'. Not that she stuck her head in the sand. She used to say, I know there's filth out there, but only pigs choose to wallow in it.

Plates rattled and I looked up to see Monty stacking the dishwasher. A domesticated man? It was too good to be true.

He closed the dishwasher. 'How accurate do you think Walenski's portrayal of O'Toole is? He comes over as overtly moral.'

'Wouldn't what happened to that nine-year old get to you?'

Monty looked at me. 'It's a book, Antsy. It could be complete fiction.'

I winced. 'But we know parts of it aren't and there's Walenski's tapes. I'd love to get my hands on them.'

'Exactly. Walenski said he wouldn't give them to us because it might prejudice us against O'Toole. What does that tell you?'

'Not to leap to conclusions?' I waited but he said nothing.

I sighed. 'I don't know, Monty. I think we have to take this on faith, for now. When O'Toole talks about the people on the Street it rings true. You know, I think we've got the 'voice' of Joseph Walenski - a serious, prim and sensitive homosexual writer - interpreting the Pete O'Toole he knew, and perhaps giving him a bit more insight and sensitivity than he really had.'

A slow smile broke across Monty's face. 'You could be right. I always said you had good instincts, Antsy.'

I felt warm right down to my toes. His gaze held mine a moment too long.

I looked down and picked up the manuscript. Back at QCA, I made sure Monty and I had never had a 'thing'.The excitement of finding a simpatico mind and working together was enough for me. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate him from a purely aesthetic point of view. I'd have to be blind not to.

Right from the beginning I'd been aware that he was different from the others. For one thing he never played those dumb male-female games that I found so irritating. That's partly why I'd thought he was gay. But nothing else had changed, so why would he give off signals now? I had to be imagining this. I'd been celibate too long. There hadn't been anyone since Nathan. At first I was too hurt and then, well, the right person just didn't come along. To be frank, I wasn't looking for anyone. Writing and directing were my passion.

'Right.' I stood up, sliding the first chapter back into the envelope. 'I'm going to download my email and write up a few ideas while everything is still fresh in my mind.'

'Sure. I'll bring my computer in, set up, then hit the sack.'

As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom I realised I should get the manuscript photocopied and put it somewhere safe. Walenski claimed the book would clear O'Toole, so it must implicate the real killer. Was I committing a criminal act withholding this manuscript and the tapes from the police?

They hadn't known of their existence 25 years ago. I figured it wouldn't hurt them to wait until I was finished with the book. A little tremor of excitement ran through me.

I wasn't obsessed with the Tough Romantics, as Monty thought, but I was fascinated by their music. There was one particular song that I associated with my mother and her wasted life, because she'd loved it. Their music defined a generation and, 25 years on, it had stood the test of time. But I'd only ever had a passing interest in the band members.

Except for Genevieve. She'd died earlier the same year as my mother and I'd grown up feeling a strange kinship with her. For a while I even believed they'd died the same day. Poor Genevieve. Her life had held such promise and then her future had been stolen. She hadn't deserved what she got, unlike my dead, junkie mother.

The woman who gave birth to me had chosen the empyreal high of heroin over her own flesh and blood. And, in the end, even that hadn't blocked out the voices. Motherhood hadn't been enough of a reason to come clean and hearing voices was no excuse. Things might have been different, maybe, if they'd kept her in the funny farm instead of letting her out to self medicate. Or, maybe, if I'd meant more to her.

I was six when she died, and can barely remember her face. If it wasn't for the photos I wouldn't even know what she looked like. If it hadn't been for Nan's stories - I'd filled in the blanks from what she hadn't said - I would never have known my mother was an emotionally-crippled nutcase.

All too familiar anger churned through me. It took everything I had to channel that anger into productive energy. If I wanted to establish my career, I had to make a bloody brilliant pilot doco. And Walenski's manuscript was just what I needed to give me an insight into the Tough Romantics' world.

I put the old manila envelope under my pillow, plugged my laptop in to save the batteries and hoisted up my business skirt to sit cross-legged on the bed with my laptop. Gritty eyed, I focused on the screen. Nothing was going to stop me - not a junkie mother, not a sadistic and manipulative ex-husband. Nobody.

Walenski's book was such a coup. I really, really wanted to blog it. I sat there for a whole minute, fingers hovering over the keys. In the end discretion won out. Then I sat there trying to work out what to say without looking like an idiot with a secret. Finally, I wrote up the interview with Arthur, the man who still dunks his biscuits, and left it hanging on a promise of more.

I just wasn't that good at blogging. Maybe it was because I'd been raised by Nan, but I felt uncomfortable about revealing my private life to a bunch of strangers.

Then I stretched out with the laptop on my stomach and re-read my script. Argh. It was terrible.

It seemed like only five minutes later that Monty knocked on the door, waking me. I surfaced from an intense conversation with Genevieve and found I'd been scratching my scar in my sleep. For a moment I didn't know what was dream and what was real. I could still hear the after echoes of her voice in my head. Obsessed, moi?

Without waiting, Monty backed into the room with a tray of coffee and toast, startling me so that I sat up and almost knocked the laptop off the bed.

Shit, I'd slept with my computer. How lame was that?

Monty turned around, took in my state and smiled. 'You sleep in designer suits? Kinky!'

I rubbed bleary eyes aware that my mascara was smudged and, from the way my face felt, I had a pillow crease down one cheek. He stood there bare chest, washboard belly, a thin line of dark hair disappearing into in a pair of red satin boxer shorts, looking good enough to eat. Why was I being punished?

'It's nearly half past eight,' he said. 'Time to get up.'

'Coffee sure smells good.'

'Yeah and you look like shit. Go take a shower.'

'Gee, thanks. You remind me of Nan.'

He grinned. 'Your nan and I have a lot in common. She told me all about you.

Given a pot of tea and a willing ear, I had no trouble imagining Monty charming Nan into revealing all sorts of embarrassing details about my childhood. A shower and a fresh face seemed like a good idea right now.

'Okay.' I climbed off the bed and noticed Monty's gaze oscillating between my thighs and the laptop. 'But don't touch anything until I get back.'

'Control freak.'

'You bet!'

I stood under the shower and let the hot water revive me. I'd never shared a house with Monty. When we met, he'd been living with a bunch of guys and I'd been living with Nan after leaving Nathan. The only time we'd 'slept together' was when we'd dropped from exhaustion after working all night. Monty had started out being careful around me and by the end of the course he was trying to push my buttons. I'd been a sort of cynical mother-confessor to our group, years older than most of them, wiser and bruised, I didn't really fit in.

I didn't major in screenwriting because it was cool; I wanted to make a difference. But, after graduating, nothing had panned out and I'd been directionless until the tap incident made me confront my own mortality.

The near miss had convinced Nan and I to sell up the family home. Built by my great-grandfather, it was a classic old Queenslander, set on stilts, with high-ceilings and verandas on three sides. Nan's pension didn't go far, so she hadn't been able to maintain it, but land close to the city with a view of the river was worth a fortune. The old houses were being bought up by trendy young couples who renovated them to within an inch of their lives. Neither of us had the money to renovate, so we sold.

It was a wrench but it was the right move for both of us. While going through my stuff I'd found the clippings on the band that I'd saved over the years and it had all come back to me. It was like waking up. I just knew what I had to do.

I began my research going right back to before Genevieve's murder, what little there was. Her defiant, vulnerable face had haunted my childhood. For the last six months I'd lived, eaten and breathed the band. Nan had insisted I use my share of the house sale to finance the project. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was woefully inadequate. But it was enough to fund the pilot doco. That's where Monty's coming in was a stroke of luck.

I just hadn't expected him to bring me breakfast in bed. My stomach rumbled.

The phone rang.

I stuck my head out of the shower. 'Who is it?'

Monty opened the door to the bathroom. Making a great show of not looking at me, he yelled, 'Must be a good friend of yours. It's some power-hungry bitch who says she can squeeze you in for a nine o'clock appointment with Jake Tucker.'

A surge of adrenalin woke me. 'Tell her I'll be there.'

'Tell her yourself.' He closed the door.

With less than half an hour to get ready, I turned off the shower.

When I marched into my bedroom, towel tucked around me, I found Monty rereading Walenski's manuscript. He took his time to look me up and down. 'I always knew your legs went right up to your bum.'

'It'd look weird if they didn't,' I said, but I had to acknowledge a kick of delight.

He grinned. 'I should have let you answer your own phone. Then I could have enjoyed the show.'

'Out.' I flung one arm towards the door.

'Do it again. The towel might fall off.'

I glared at him, but it was hard to be intimidating in a fluffy towel.

Monty mock leered at me and ambled to the doorway.

I marched behind him ready to shut the door. 'And if you want to come with me, cut the crap.'

A shove would have pushed him out into the hall, but I didn't trust myself to touch that expanse of inviting dark skin.

'Does this mean we won't be calling on Walenski until later?' he asked.

Keep your mind on the job, girl. I considered getting Walenski's number from Arthur and phoning him, but humble pie is best eaten in person. 'Yes. Now leave and let me get dressed.'

'I could stay and help you choose what to wear.'

'Go.'

He backed out as I shut the door. Living with Monty was doing wonderful things for my libido, but it was no good for my peace of mind and I'd worked hard to rebuild myself, these last five years.

Now, what to wear. I wanted to look good, but sharp. If only I hadn't slept in the vintage suit.

We were 15 minutes late for the appointment which was not bad, considering the traffic. It didn't matter. Jake Tucker didn't show for another 40 minutes.

Tucker's publicist offered us tea and coffee. Since we'd had no breakfast, I took her up on it. We were finishing off a round of hotel sandwiches when she returned to let the great man in.

He wore black T-shirt and jeans, and a two-day designer stubble. Jake Tucker took his status as pop-star icon seriously. He was in his early 40s, a little older than Pete O'Toole had been when Genevieve was murdered and O'Toole had considered himself old. Jake Tucker obviously didn't. But too much hard living had aged Tuck. He looked like he had ten years on Arthur. He had one of those thin, troubled faces that you associate with artistic people or self-obsessed addicts.

'Drink?' he asked, as he lounged in the seat opposite.

I waved at the remains on the coffee table. His publicist hurried over with something which looked suspiciously like vodka and orange for him.

'Cheers.' He lifted the drink and sent me a charming smile which said he always had time for a pretty woman. I gritted my teeth. Men tend to react that way when they first meet me. It doesn't last.

'So why am I seeing you, Anna?' he asked.

'Antonia.' Great. He hadn't bothered to listen to his publicist. 'I'm researching the early years of the Tough Romantics for a documentary-'

'About how the band became famous?' His Australian accent was still detectable, deliberately so I guessed. 'That's a coincidence. I'm working with a ghost writer on my autobiography. My agent is negotiating a movie option right now.'

Bullshit! I longed to kick him. Instead I cleared my throat and persevered. 'I wanted to ask you a few questions about the early years.'

'Sure. Ahh, Pia and Genevieve.' His reminiscent smile said, What man wouldn't be happy to boast of his past loves, especially when he was bedding them both at the same time?

I played along. 'Is it true the three of you were lovers?'

He shrugged. 'AIDS was only just rearing its ugly head. We were young. The girls didn't mind sharing me. What can I say? I didn't argue.' He smiled like the arrogant prick he was. Let the interviewer fill in the gaps. It was better left to the imagination.

I bristled. It was clear I wasn't going to get anything fresh out of Tucker. I wanted to pierce his bubble. 'A three-way love affair must have caused a lot of tension?'

'Some, but it had its consolations.' He sipped his drink, eye suggestively downcast. He must have done this act a thousand times.

'Enough tension to drive someone to murder Genevieve James?' I struck. 'The night she was killed she went back to tell the band that she was leaving. The Tough Romantics were about to sign a recording deal. Who murdered Genevieve, Mr Tucker?'

'Pete O'Toole.' He didn't miss a beat. 'Everyone knows that.'

'If Genevieve had left the Tough Romantics as she planned, would the band have survived? Arthur once said she was twice the singer Pia was.'

Tucker dropped the languid pose, sitting forward. 'Look, Veevie was a silly little bitch who got herself killed. Girls like her end up as roadkill every day. So she could play guitar and sing a bit, but she had no formal training and she thought she knew it all. That made her as bad as a no-talent. If she had lived she would have ended up as Mrs Somebody with three kids and a mortgage. End of story.'

Anger ignited me. I drew breath to let him have it.

'Fuck!' Tucker jumped up to avoid the arc of Monty's spilling coffee.

'Sorry man. Missed the table.' Monty's apology was a parody that only I got. He set the cup upright on the coffee table. 'Lucky it was nearly empty.'

'Hannah!' Tucker yelled, but his publicist was already running over with a damp towel.

She sponged his designer pants. 'It's only a couple of drops, Mr Tucker. I'll get them dry-cleaned after the interview.'

While Tucker allowed himself to be mollified, Monty sent me a warning look. What did he think I was, rash?

When the publicist hurried off with the towel I cleared my throat. 'Whether Genevieve was an asset to the band or not, she didn't leave, she was murdered and, with the ensuing publicity, the Tough Romantics flourished. Would you and Pia be where you are today, if she had lived?'

'Since we can't go back and change the past, we'll never know, will we?' His flat blue eyes were hard and cold like the wet slate they resembled.

Slimy bastard. I held his gaze and took a gamble. 'I think you know what really happened the night Genevieve James died. Why don't you tell me and get it off your chest?'

'Christ! You are one pushy bitch. I don't have to put up with this. Hannah?' Tucker called, but his publicist wasn't in the room. He sprang to his feet, pale and sweating. 'Get out of here.'

I rose. Tucker's belligerence faltered as Monty came to his full height. What I wouldn't give to be tall and black like Monty.

'I'm going, Mr Tucker,' I said. 'But consider this, I am also going to make this documentary. You can be interviewed and give your side of the story along with Pia and Arthur, or you can watch it on TV with the fans.'

His hands curled into fists as if he wanted to punch me.

'Yes?' Hannah returned, sweating on his call.

I gestured to her. 'Your publicist has my number. Call me if you want to talk.' I walked out.

Monty didn't say anything as we went down stairs and got in the car. He was still not commenting when we parked down the road from Walenski's place. As I opened the car door Monty caught my arm.

I waited.

He just looked at me, intelligent black eyes asking a silent question.

'It's okay, I've calmed down. I won't spoil my chance of getting a hold of Walenski's book,' I said and he let my arm go. I climbed out, slamming the door. The delicious smell of baking wafted across the road from a patisserie. Monty joined me and we headed up the grey street together. 'But you can't deny he was an arrogant prick!'

'And I thought you had a monopoly on arrogance.'

I stopped.

Seeing my expression, Monty laughed outright. The bastard.

Okay so I am a little in-your-face but marriage to Nathan taught me that attack is often the best defence.

Monty was watching me, a smile on his lips. I detected a thread of worry in his dark eyes. Apart from Nan, I wasn't used to people worrying about me. It made me feel trapped, yet he was right and I had to be honest.

I grinned ruefully. 'Point taken. I could have handled Tucker better. It's just I couldn't stand him talking about her like that.'

'Who, Genevieve?' He paused. 'Since when do you have an emotional investment in a girl who's been dead 25 years?'

I swallowed. He was right. I closed my eyes and had a flash of the 'Veevie' Arthur had known, running down the hallway laughing. With it came a rush of emotion: it was love, for her, and frustration because she couldn't see how I felt. I ran after her, down the stairs, caught up with her in the dim kitchen. We sat at the table having a deep and meaningful. She searched my face, wanted something from me, something vitally important.

'What's wrong, Antsy?' Monty's large hands settled on my shoulders, his voice concerned, intimate.

'Nothing.' I brushed his hands away.

'Bit of a nervous tic you've got there.' He gestured to my hands.

I stopped scratching immediately. 'Just a dream, that's all. A dream.'

He took a step back. 'I never remember my dreams.'

Perversely, I regretted brushing him off. 'Not even bad dreams? How can you not remember your dreams? Since coming here I've been having this dream where my ex-husband is coming after me.' I was babbling. As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

Monty stepped closer. I felt trapped and glanced up to the flat. Now that I could see the stairs in daylight I was glad the first time we'd climbed them in the dark. 'Hope Walenski's in. Come on.'

On the first floor landing I knocked on the door with the inverted B and waited. My stomach rumbled. 'We should have brought some pastries from the bakery.'

'As a burnt offering?'

Monty could always make me smile. I liked the way his mind worked.

He returned my grin and I was surprised by a surge of relief. 'You're right, I handled that badly. Maybe it would be better if you dealt with Tucker in future. He reminds me of Nathan. Makes me feel like a vulnerable 19-year-old girl again.'

Monty looked a little startled and opened his mouth to speak, just as Walenski fumbled with the catch, opening the door without the chain this time.

He looked us over. 'Knew it would be you.'

'Uh, Mr Walenski,' I began.

'You want the rest of my book. Well, it's not ready.'

'How much is ready?'

His faded eyes gleamed with satisfaction. 'It's gripping isn't it? It just poured out of me all those years ago. And it's good, even if it is a first draft. I did go back and begin to tidy it up but I never got past marking up the corrections on the first couple of chapters. That's what I'm doing now, retyping the worst pages, only my fingers aren't as fast as they used to be.'

'I'm used to messy scripts. I can read around your corrections.'

He shook his head. 'This has to be just right.'

Great, a perfectionist. I persevered. 'I'm fast and accurate. I could type it.'

'No, I'm refining as I go.' He drew back, hands coming up between us in a classic defensive gesture. 'Besides, on the first read through I crossed out certain things and now I'm putting them back in. Since you're going to clear O'Toole's name I owe it to him to reveal us, warts and all.'

I was going to clear O'Toole? This was news to me. But I wasn't about to correct him. I had to have that manuscript. It gave me an edge on Tucker, on Pia, all of them. Arthur wanted my project to lay Genevieve's ghost to rest but for me, it was bringing her to life. I itched to push past Walenski and claim both the manuscript and the tapes.

'When will you have it finished?'

'Can't say.'

Frustration ate at me. I took out a card and scribbled my current address. 'This is where I'm staying. When you've got the next chapter ready, bring it over.'

'I don't drive.'

'Take a taxi. I'll pay.' I handed the card to him.

When he read the address, he stiffened.

'Yes. I'm renting One-Eight-One, next door to your old place.'

'I haven't been back since they bulldozed the boarding house,' he confessed. He grimaced and looked up at me. 'It's been almost 25 years, but in some ways it's as raw as if it had happened yesterday. I've just been listening to the tapes. O'Toole's voice brings it all back.'

At that moment he seemed very fragile. I glanced behind him. Down the narrow hall the flat was dim and cluttered, smelt of old age and last night's fried onions. I had the feeling that time had stood still for Walenski, and if I'd come here 10 years ago the flat would have been much the same. I seemed to see him, trapped in a cycle of endless routine as life passed him by. My scarred palm itched and I rubbed it on my thigh. 'Is there anything you need, food, money?' Housekeeper?

He shook his head, starting to close the door.

'It's Tucker, isn't it?' I demanded. 'He killed her.'

Walenski laughed.

Damn. 'Who then?'

'You'll have to wait.'

'I can't wait.'

He laughed, gently this time. 'It seems the less time you have left, the easier it is to wait.' He continued closing the door.

'You'll bring the next chapter as soon as it's ready,' I pressed.

He nodded. 'You can get your foot out of the door now.'

I eased back and turned to Monty as Walenski shut the door on us.

'You're right,' Monty said. 'That was much gentler than the way you handled Tucker.'

I laughed. Couldn't help it.

We headed down the steps.

Monty didn't say anything as I drove back to One-Eight-One. When I left the garage I saw Smokey lying in the sun, snoozing. I was going to say something to Monty about lazy cats, but the phone rang. I ran inside and grabbed it. 'Yes?'

'What did you say to Tuck?' Arthur asked, not a great one for social niceties.

I sat down, all my doubts about Arthur flooding back.

Walenski had proved to be genuine but how did Arthur know where to find him? I hit speaker phone so Monty could hear. 'How'd you find the missing witness?'

'You saw him?'

I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. 'Yeah. How did you find him?'

'Joe talk to you?'

Did this mean Arthur didn't know about the book? Maybe he'd just put us onto Walenski for the insight he could give.

'He opened up,' I temporised.

'Good. I thought he would.' Arthur's voice dropped. 'Mortality makes you reassess your life. Joe has an inoperable cancer-'

'Liver cancer.' It just popped out. Monty looked surprised.

'Yeah. So, he told you? He doesn't like to talk about it.'

'Just a guess.' I shivered and changed the phone to my other hand, so I could rub my palm on my thigh. I glanced at the sliding doors. Even though sunlight glinted on the maple's brilliant leaves I felt vulnerable and exposed. So much so, that I gestured to Monty to close the blinds. He didn't ask why.

Meanwhile, Arthur continued. 'So you see, I didn't find Joe, he found me. Late last year. He needed money for the specialist but there's nothing they can do. He won't see Christmas.'

It all fell into place. With only months to live, Walenski no longer cared if the public knew he was a homosexual, who fancied teenage boys. He had failed to provide his best friend's alibi 25 years ago and now he wanted to see justice done. It seemed O'Toole's ghost was haunting him, as Genevieve's had been haunting Arthur.

But if Walenski's book proved O'Toole was not her killer, then who was?

'You still there?' Arthur asked.

'Yeah.'

'Tuck is spitting nails.'

'He said Genevieve was a no-talent hanger on. Did he used to bash her?'

There was a long silence.

I could wait.

Monty took the seat opposite me, stretching his legs. Head tilted to one side, listening to every nuance in Arthur's voice.

'Tuck called me. He's threatening legal action,' Arthur warned. 'Says he was planning a movie based on his autobiography and he doesn't want an unauthorised documentary coming out at the same time.'

'Great. That's the kind of publicity I need.'

Arthur laughed. 'You're good at playing the tough bitch, aren't you?'

Was I? I couldn't help wondering at his phrasing, and his motivation in all this. 'Why did you give me the mystery witness?'

'I loved her,' he said, and hung up.

I put the receiver down slowly, meeting Monty's gaze. I must have looked stunned because laughter crinkled the skin around his eyes.

'Arthur Davidson, man of many parts,' he whispered.

'I should've told him he was on speaker phone.' I felt guilty.

Monty studied me.

'What?'

'How'd you know Walenski had liver cancer?'

I shrugged and slid my hands into my pockets, pressing my itching palm against my thigh. 'Looks like Jake Tucker's going to be a bastard and try to stop me from making the doco.'

'He doesn't know you like I do.'

I grinned then stood up. 'I'm going to photocopy Walenski's book and post the copy registered mail to Nan.'

'Good idea.'

'Reading the book has given me some ideas for then-and-now stuff. You can cruise St Kilda take some shots, hunt up locations for interviews.'

'Slave driver.'

I stood over him. 'Yeah, and don't you love it?'

His eyes gleamed.

I felt an answering quickening of desire. Then I turned around and walked out, terrified.

Why had I said that to him? I never flirt. What on earth had possessed me?

It didn't take long to photocopy Walenski's first chapter. I bundled it up, tucking it inside a post bag. Then I asked the post office to date stamp it and scribbled a quick note to Nan, slipped this inside a larger bag then sent it registered post with instructions for her not to open the inner bag.

I strolled back up Fitzroy Street, thinking Monty had changed. I didn't sense the age gap between us like I used to. Here he was, confronting me and forcing me to admit I had overreacted to Tucker. Sometimes, I didn't like myself very much. Come to think of it, how could Monty put up with me when I was such a loser?

The Robot from Lost in Space did his spiel in my head: Warning, Warning: negative thought pattern approaching. Damn. I was not going to let the negative programming Nathan had tried to establish, ruin my life. Monty was here, working on the Tough Romantics project with me because he thought it was worthwhile, because he thought I was worthwhile.

When I got back to One-Eight-One Monty opened the front door before I could use my key. His eyes were alight with mischief. I felt an answering tug of anticipation and smiled slowly. 'I thought you were going to hunt up locations.'

'This is even better. Arthur called, says he's got something to show us.'

As we headed down the hall, we passed the archway that led into the front room. I hardly ever came in here, preferring the sunlit kitchen. This room was always cold. And now I noticed beads of water gleaming on the polished wooden floor, as if someone had brought a drink in here and spilt a few drops.

'Bummer, Monty. Can't spoil the polish.' I darted in, wiping up the drops with a tissue. 'That's one thing about staying in someone else's house. You have to be twice as careful.'

'I haven't been in here,' he protested, then nodded to the window. It was opaque with condensation. 'Old places always have trouble with moisture. Come on, Arthur's expecting us. He sounded pleased with himself. Wonder what he wants to show us.'

It was only after we'd climbed into my old Corolla and headed out to the Dandenongs that I remembered One-Eight-One had been renovated twice, most recently in the last five years. There shouldn't have been rising damp. Oh, well. That was Grace and Scott's problem, not mine.

The drive to Arthur's place took nearly 40 minutes and there was no point in speculating about what Arthur was up to. Monty said nothing. That was one of the things I liked about him. He didn't waste time on small talk.

Gravel crunched under the tyres as we pulled up the drive. I climbed out of the car, stretched stiff muscles and inhaled. The air smelt different up here - earthy with decaying plant matter and damp with the promise of cool rain. Autumn was well and truly here. It was a real buzz after Brisbane which had only two seasons, hot-humid Australian summer and cool-dry English summer.

Monty and I walked towards the front door. It swung open as we stepped onto the veranda.

'Come in.' Arthur greeted us. 'Pats has gone to the gym. We've got until two.'

Monty caught my eye, his alight with laughter, quickly hidden.

Once we were in the foyer I made the introductions. 'Arthur, this is Monty McArthur. He's my DOP. He's very visual.'

Arthur was as tall as Monty, but thinner. As he gave Monty a preoccupied nod and led us down the hall in the opposite direction his wife had taken the day before, I recognised the nook where he had hidden to call me about Walenski. It made me smile until I realised I'd never been in this part of the hall before. I caught myself nervously rubbing my palm on my thigh. Maybe I should go back to the counsellor.

We went through to a garage which had been converted into a recording studio.

'I didn't know you were still working?' I made it a question.

Arthur shrugged this aside. 'Only for my own amusement.'

I could just hear his wife's patronising tone as she explained to her friends. Yes, Arthur still plays, but only for his own amusement.

Arthur strode across the dim garage. 'It's over here.'

As we followed him I passed a framed painting that was propped against the wall. Even with its base on the floor it was taller than me and was less than a metre wide. It reminded me of Jeffrey Smart's stylised realist urban work but this painting was not as sparse. The central figure, a tramp sat in the gutter, staring defiantly out at the viewer.

I stopped so suddenly Monty collided with me. Catching his arm, I nodded towards the canvas. His eyes widened.

It was O'Toole's painting. The tramp was a young Joseph Walenski made to look old, and behind him four arty types were caught in mid-stride, out for a Sunday stroll. I recognised Genevieve and Arthur, walking arm in arm. Her dark eyes sparkled as she tilted her head, birdlike, listening to something Arthur was saying. A bright violet streak dominated her short dark hair. Behind them, and partly out of frame, but still recognisable were Tucker and Pia. A stray strand of hair had blown across her lips. She was laughing, her mouth open. They all looked so young and unsuspecting, it was painful.

Arthur had stopped speaking and turned back to see what was holding us up. I opened my mouth then remembered that, if Arthur didn't know about the book, I wasn't supposed to know about the St Kilda Art Show.

'O'Toole's last painting,' Arthur said. 'Joe had it all this time. I got it framed when I bought it from him. He had no idea what a Tough Romantics collector would have paid for it. He only sold it to me because he needed money and didn't want charity. I had to twist his arm to take as much as he did.'

'You all posed for it?' I asked.

'Veevie did. O'Toole took some promotional shots, just before…before she died. He must have used those as references to capture us.'

I nodded slowly, eyes on the painting. O'Toole had done more than capture their likenesses. I was reminded of the many indigenous peoples who refused to be photographed because they believed their image captured their soul.

'It must be worth a fortune,' Monty said.

'To the right person.' Arthur gave an apologetic grin. 'When I got it back from the framers I hung it over the mantelpiece in the library. Pats said it gave her the creeps so I moved it in here.'

Monty and I exchanged looks.

Arthur cleared his throat. 'Take a seat.' He indicated a two-seater couch that had seen better days. It was positioned in front of a TV-sized computer screen which was running a screensaver. It had to be a personal screensaver because the three children were obviously Arthur's. Two looked just like Pats, but the eldest girl had his clever, slightly uneven eyes.

He killed the lights and inserted a disk. 'I got the original super-8 digitised to save it from deteriorating any further, then edited it and burned it to DVD.'

The monitor cleared to black, then a menu came up. He hit play. A title and date appeared. The date was a month prior to Genevieve's murder. The words faded out as sound built and the picture became clear. Arthur was a dab hand at editing his own home movies. He sat on one end of the couch next to me, sinking deep into the worn springs.

Monty perched on the couch's arm, his hard thigh near my cheek. It was an effort, but I ignored it.

'You gotta realise the original was not a professional recording.' Arthur said. 'One of my friends came along to see us perform at the Prince of Wales and filmed us. I've cleaned it up as much as I could.'

Dark heads appeared silhouetted against a lit stage while Tucker and Arthur did a sound check. Arthur hunched over his synthesiser fiddling with dials. Pia stepped onto the stage. With her white-blond hair and wide cheek bones she glowed under the spot light. And the camera loved her; unlike the small, dark-haired girl who followed her.

Still, I had eyes only for Genevieve as she adjusted the height of the microphone so that she could play rhythm guitar and sing. Something shifted inside me, as I recognised Genevieve on a visceral level. The sensation was so strange I felt slightly sick.

In my mind's eye, superimposed over this Genevieve in the grainy black-and-white film, I saw Veevie in full colour, running down the upstairs hall towards the bathroom. She laughed as she glanced back over her shoulder. The memory of the dream wasn't just visual, it came with all the emotional associations, and these triggered other vignettes, each as rich and multilayered: Genevieve prancing around the kitchen, Genevieve at the kitchen table, tear tracks on her cheeks while she searched my face for something only I could give.

As my dreams came back to me, I realised I'd been seeing Genevieve James every night since I'd moved into One-Eight-One. No wonder I recognised her.

Monty caught my hand, to stop me rubbing the palm on the couch. 'We're about to see the original line-up of the Tough Romantics,' he said with a soft laugh. 'And I've got goose bumps. Antsy's obsession must be rubbing off on me.'

This time I didn't bother to deny the fixation.

The screen reclaimed my attention. It had to have been filmed with a hand-held camera. More heads blocked our view, and there was clapping as Tucker picked up his bass guitar and Pia went over to the mic near Arthur.

Abruptly the picture faded to black then came back. I realised the cameraman had climbed onto a chair and Arthur must have edited this out because now we were about the same level as the four band members.

Tucker gave the signal, nodding to Arthur who began with a series of rising chords, then Tucker's guitar came in with Genevieve playing rhythm. Next came Pia harmonising, professionally sensual already.

And then Genevieve sang Heartless City. It told the story of young woman who can't find love and ends up killing herself. The child-that-I-was had thought it told the story of my mother. That was before I found out about the drugs and the voices.

The camera focused on Genevieve and I couldn't tear my gaze away. She had none of Pia's practised moves. She was raw. She was vulnerable. She sang from the heart and her voice was incredible. She did not sound like a girl of nearly 17, more like a woman who had seen life and suffered.

'Gets you right here, doesn't it?' Arthur whispered, tapping his chest with his fist.

'Such a powerful voice from that little body.' I found it hard to speak. I knew the song of course, it was their first single, but this arrangement was unfamiliar. When Heartless City was released it had been transposed for Pia's higher voice. I had a love/hate thing with the famous recording; the one that had been my mother's favourite, the one she'd played over and over in the last month before she died. I remembered that, more than I remembered her. Much like the faces of the band, also more familiar than hers, from the posters on our walls.

Yet I had no trouble appreciating this version and, now that I'd heard it, I would never feel the same about Pia's rendition. This was grittier and much more powerful.

I glanced up at Monty. He was spellbound. I turned to Arthur. Tears trailed slowly down his cheeks. I looked away and didn't look back.

The shaky camera work, the intimacy of the pub gig, it held me enthralled. Then Genevieve stepped back to let Pia sing. The Tough Romantics played another six songs, all original material. Tucker and Pia sang the one that later became their trademark, You Don't See Me. Even Arthur had a short solo on the synthesiser. The 18-year-old Arthur seemed glad when it was over. They finished with Genevieve and Tucker doing a duet where they argued in song over a love gone wrong. I knew I Don't Need You!, but again, the lyrics in this version were not the lyrics I was familiar with. This was raw and sassy, yet poignant.

'Veevie wrote that,' Arthur said, voice cracking. 'The record company made us clean it up for release. In those days we didn't have the power to say no.'

The band's set finished and the screen faded to black, then cleared. Now we were backstage with the band and their hangers-on, who were drinking, smoking and talking. Tucker and Pia dominated the group; Genevieve was just a common sparrow compared to those swans. And there was Arthur with his sensitive, lopsided face telegraphing every emotion. The group radiated a vital energy, almost as if they knew they were going to make it big.

Arthur stood up and cleared his throat as the recording finished. There was silence in the semi-dark of the heavily curtained garage. He took the DVD out of the computer and put it in its case with deliberate casualness. I realised he was giving himself a chance to regain control. When he'd done that he switched on a desk light and turned to us.

'So,' he said, 'Veevie was a no-talent hanger on? Bullshit!'

'How come I've never heard a recording of her singing?' I asked. 'The band did a demo for Mushroom just before she died. What happened to it?'

'Ask Tucker. He claims it was pinched when we were touring. If so, why hasn't it turned up? Some fan somewhere would be boasting that it was in his collection.' Arthur's hands closed protectively around the DVD. 'Tuck doesn't know I've got this. No one does.'

'What about the guy who filmed it?'

'Drove his car into a pole while under the influence.'

'Sorry to hear that. I need a copy of that DVD. Could you burn one for me?' I heard myself and winced. Arthur had kept this film secret for 25 years and he'd admitted he'd felt much more than friendship for Genevieve. This had to be painful for him. I cleared my throat. 'Please?'

For a heartbeat I thought he was going to refuse, then he nodded slowly as if it was painful for him.

I had to come clean. 'Would you mind if I uploaded a clip to YouTube and my Facebook page? I'm also doing a blog.'

'I know. I googled you and the band,' Arthur admitted. One corner of his mouth lifted. 'Six gold records, 11 years of national and international charity work and all you can talk about is my biscuit dunking?'

I blushed. I knew blogging would come back to bite me.

He grinned. 'Sure, put something up, but only a snippet. Something with Veevie. I know just the thing. Tuck'll go troppo.'

I had to laugh.

'This won't take a minute,' Arthur said. He put the disk back in the computer drive. While he set up the burn, haunting synthesised singing segued through the garage-studio. He and Monty put their heads together, talking software samplers and synthesiser loops but I was preoccupied.

I'd told Monty I remembered my dreams. I always had, until the accident. Since then I'd been falling asleep and waking like one dead, until I moved into One-Eight-One. I'd slept there three nights now, the first two I'd had nightmares about Nathan. Last night was the first time I hadn't woken in a sweat of fear. Last night it seemed I'd dreamed of a Genevieve James instead. Over and over again.

Arthur's DVD cast a new light on her murder. She had been an integral part of the band and, according to O'Toole, Tucker used to knock her around. What if Tucker had been furious with her for wanting to leave them? What if, in a fit of temper, he'd grabbed the knife from the kitchen bench and stabbed her? Had she run out to the taxi to get away from him, then been too weak to lock the doors?

I'd only been trying to wind him up today. But maybe- maybe Tucker wasn't so much an arrogant prick as a murderous prick, who was hiding a gangrenous secret that could ruin him. What if Walenski's 'educated guess' was wrong? I shivered. On consideration, yanking Tucker's chain didn't seem like such a good idea.

But I was still going to upload the clip of Genevieve singing. It was too good to pass up.

'Here.' Arthur thrust the DVD copy into my hands. 'That's the whole thing, plus I've converted two clips to mpegs. Upload the You Don't See Me clip of Pia and Tucker first to stir up interest. Hint you have something that showcases Veevie. When you've got them buzzing, then upload the I Don't Need You! clip with Veevie and Tucker.'

'Gee, thanks.' I grinned. This guy knew marketing. 'Can I hire you to work for me, Arthur?'

'This is so much fun,' a lopsided smile split his face, 'that I'd pay you.'

If it wasn't for him we wouldn't have this DVD or Walenski and access to his book. I touched Arthur's arm briefly, felt the swell of his bicep under the jumper. 'No, really. I appreciate what you've done.'

He shrugged. 'We all have our reasons.'

Yes, he hoped I'd uncover the real killer. That wasn't my goal at all. Was it?

Okay, so I wanted to explore the wellspring that the Tough Romantics' creativity sprang from. Four year's of study and I still didn't understand creativity. What drove people to create? What made one person successful and not another? Creativity wasn't enough. Lots of people with talent never made it. You had to be a bit obsessive. You had to make sacrifices.

What were you willing to give up for success?

The DVD was playing on Arthur's wide screen and we both turned to it as Genevieve sang I Don't Need You! with Tucker.

'I always preferred the original version,' Arthur admitted. 'But no one would listen to me.'

I glanced at him and, for an instant, it was the totally-exposed 18-year-old Arthur who looked back. What drove him to go in to politics? He was too honest. 'I don't get it. Why are you standing for election? You'll be eaten alive.'

He laughed and, as I watched, 25 years of life seeped back into his eyes. 'You wouldn't believe the things I've seen.'

And done?

'I'm going to make a difference, Antonia, and politics is the shortest path to power. I've been laying the foundations for years with my charity work.'

Arthur was that calculated? How could he be both the boyish idealist and the cynical manipulator?

'Sometimes to beat people at their own game, you have to play by their rules,' he said.

Was I part of his game? Was his help all part of a larger plan? I looked to Monty who was watching Arthur like he'd done something interesting.

Arthur glanced at his watch. 'Damn, nearly two. You'd better go.'

At that moment, I knew the biscuit dunking was deliberate, one of Arthur's little victories over his wife, and I doubted Pats would ever realise.

When we got back to One-Eight-One, Monty put the kettle on, while I ran upstairs to set up my laptop and upload the first clip. I wrote a cryptic blog: Promised you something big. Here's a teaser.

That would set the cat among the pigeons, as Nan would say.

Speaking of cats, Smokey was nowhere to be seen again; off on rat patrol I guess.

I ran downstairs, still smiling and checked the snail-mail to see if there was anything for Grace and Scott. Nothing, but there was a manila envelope in the letter box. I scooped it up and ran through to the kitchen.

'Guess what Monty? The manuscript fairy's been!'

'What are you waiting for?' He finished stirring a coffee and slid it down the bench to me. 'Open up.'

I broke the seal and pulled the next chapter out and fanned the pages. Same paper, same faded manual typewriter ribbon. On most of the pages the text had one or two corrections in faded blue biro, but others were completely clean. Obviously freshly typed. Monty joined me at the kitchen bench, his expression almost hungry. I felt the same way.