Читать книгу Priors - Stuart Jackson E. - Страница 5

A full forty-eight hours had passed since they’d found Christie and the dead woman. In that time Barron had slept for ten hours; his usual was six. He generally went to bed late. He’d sometimes just sit in the lounge room by himself, no sound save for the traffic that ran outside, and read. Biographies mainly. Stories about people, real people, and the lives they had led. Written by themselves or by others. And he never ceased to marvel how different people could be, how their backgrounds or their parents impacted on their lives - how they made conscious career or life changes because of differing circumstances. Conquered them, reacted against them, went with them. But always went on. Rarely looked back with regret. Looking back was just memories - memories that you kept or ignored.

Or he’d sit and listen to his music. Five hundred records, ninety percent of which were classical, and a growing number of compact discs. There was still something about the tone that made it hard to throw any of the records out. He had five versions of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons - each different in their own way, but if he had to pick one it would be the one by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra. A link, he thought. Association, but then so much of life was. Don’t fiddle around. Violin. Zukerman and the Bach violin concertos. Association.

Who you associate with. Fay. Met her at the club one night. She’d gone with a friend, but he’d lost a lot of money and stormed out without her. She played alongside him for a while, turning fifty dollars into two hundred and enjoying herself, while he’d lost another three hundred. But he’d bought her a drink and one thing had led to another.

Or, on rare occasions, he would merely sit in front of the television and let it rule him. Effortless entertainment that numbed the mind. But, too often, he’d drink too much and he’d awake in the early morning, the television screen a glare of hissing light, cold wrapping around his shoulders, an empty glass at his feet.

In the day work was everything, all consuming, occupying.

And today he felt fresh, as he should. He hadn’t wanted to see Gloria Doyle yesterday, because he needed to be alert. Careful of what he said and alert to her comments, her mood, her reactions.

The Doyle’s house was in Burwood and he turned the car north off Toorak Road before it crossed Warrigal Road. It was a house that Barry and Gloria Doyle had lived in since they first bought it. Barry was prone to repeat the story to whoever would listen to it, about how a rich uncle of Gloria’s had returned from Africa and lived long enough to re-write his will and leave the pretty Gloria one thousand pounds. And with that money they’d bought the house and raised three daughters in it. They’d named the first child after the uncle’s wife - Hortense - that Barry came to regret. Hortense, Barry would say, is not an easy name for a girl to carry around with her.

The original condition of the house had changed over recent years with the addition of an extra bedroom and a sunroom and then a large garage and workshop for Barry. The front garden looked neat and tidy, as if the lawns had only just been cut and the flowerbeds cleared of weeds. The front of the house, Barron knew, had been painted just before Barry’s death and that had only been seven months ago.

Barron rang the front door bell and waited patiently. He saw the shape move behind the mottled glass and then the door was opened.

“David,” she said. She sounded surprised. But she repeated his name and it sounded warmer. “David, it’s been so long. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Fine. And you?”

She merely smiled and nodded her head and then said, “Oh, you know,” and stood back to let him into the house. “Come through to the kitchen, I was just doing some cooking. Biscuits.”

The house was quiet and cool. The kitchen was brighter. One wall was glass and overlooked the back yard beyond a timber deck. A large Labrador dog got to its feet as Barron came into the kitchen and cocked his head to one side, unsure of who he was. He barked three times and then sat down, staring into the house.

“How have you been?” Barron asked again.

“Oh, I get by, you know, David. And as each day passes that ‘getting by’ gets easier. I still think he’s in the room with me every now and again. And I’ll turn round quickly, but he’ll be gone.”

“Where are the kids?”

“All working now. Julie got a job with a hairdresser about two months ago. She’s happy.”

“You’re looking well.”

“You’re a liar,” she said and tried to laugh. “What do you want, David?”

“I came to see how you were.”

“And what else?”

He smiled and said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

“What about? About Barry?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Her voice was tired.

“Another case that we’re working on.”

“What has that got to do ...?”

“Probably nothing. In fact, I’m sure it’s nothing, but the boss wants it all checked out thoroughly. You know what we’re like.”

“Bastards,” she said softly.

“That too,” Barron admitted. “This case is a murder ...”

She looked at him.

“And one of the people involved mentioned Barry’s name. We’ve got a suspect and have just about wrapped up all the evidence we need. I’m just tying up the loose ends. And ... and I thought that if the loose ends had to be tied up by talking to you, that it was best that I did the talking.”

“A murder? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But it covers Federal law.”

She watched him, in silence, for a full minute and then said, “Okay, what do you need to know?”

“Barry was working on a case...”

“In Tasmania?”

“Yes.”

“Did he talk about it much?”

“No more than any other case he was on.”

Barron pulled a small notebook from his pocket and said, “Let me make some notes as we go.”

*******

Barron left an hour later. There was enough in the pages of his notebook to tie things up on any connection with Christie and Doyle and Tasmania. Part of the priors for Christie.

Priors.

Part of Lefroy’s culture. Lefroy had started with the Melbourne office just as they were starting to wrap-up the Cornelius case. An American connection into Thailand, through Singapore and it had been a joint exercise, nicely co-ordinated by the AFP. Lefroy had called the task force together, an hour before they were due to leave for an assault on premises in Albert Park.

“With any case we work on,” he’d said, “there are three components. The first is the incident - or incidents. The scene of the crime, the crime itself, forensic, witnesses. The third is the wrap-up - the way we bring it all together, fitting all the pieces in place, the presentation for the prosecutor.” He’d paused.

Barron remembered that he had everyone’s attention. That was no mean feat in itself, prior to a bust, when tensions were high, and everybody was keyed-up. Tight. Impatient. And he had their attention for two reasons - one, because he was new and they were still trying to suss him out. The second, because he hadn’t yet got to the second component.

“And the second part is the priors. This is the background, the motive, everything that occurred prior to the incident and which contributed to the incident. You don’t have a crime without the priors. The priors are the reasons. With the priors, everything else comes together. The priors explain why it happened and they give the body to the wrap-up. Priors will be a major part - the major part - of your reports. A jury is interested in the priors, because it’s human nature to know the ‘why’.”

Another pause.

“Get the priors right,” Lefroy had said simply.

Priors, Barron thought.

He’d started on Christie’s priors. And with them he could make sure that Christie was nailed.

*******

“The Feds have got Christie.”

Giovanni Sabatini said the five words and lit his cigar. He was a large man, although no one would have called him fat - not to his face, at least. The light grey suit that he wore, and the striped shirt beneath it, fitted him perfectly, tailored finely to fit his large frame. He sat in the large chair and crossed his legs. His black shoes caught the reflections from the lights on the walls. Like the suit they had been made especially for him, but unlike the suit, the shoes had been made in Bangkok. The craftsmanship of the Thais never ceased to amaze him and every trip he took to Thailand saw him return with at least another two pairs of shoes. The overall impression he saw was one of a conservative businessman and his only concession to a little colour was the red and blue bow tie at his throat.

He laid the lighter on the small table alongside the chair and puffed on the cigar, allowing the smoke to gather and swirl in front of his face. His face reflected his sixty years, pale, lined, with some light brown sunspots. The eyes were grey, set deep above puffy cheeks. His hair was black and thin.

“What are we paying this guy for?”

Sabatini looked at his companion through the clearing cigar smoke. Like most of the younger men in the business, he thought, Franco Beltrane, was impatient. This was, Sabatini thought, influenced by two elements - one, merely a reflection of the fast pace at which today’s business ran, and the second was the normal reaction to the slower, traditional pace at which Sabatini’s generation operated. There wasn’t the same respect, or time, for the old traditions, the customs, and the politeness. Sabatini understood how Beltrane felt and when he was gone, then Franco could run it his way. Until then....

“It’s okay, Franco,” Sabatini said. He knew that Beltrane preferred to be called Frank, but old habits died hard. He had been with his father when Franco had been born and it had been the name his father and his mother had wanted for him. “It is under control.”

“I thought it was under control before.”

Beltrane stood next to the older man, a glass of beer in one hand. His other hand swept across the front of his body as he spoke, ending in a clenched fist that, Sabatini surmised, signified the control he thought they had. He was a tall man, nearly six foot, shortly-cropped black curly hair, clean shaven, and bright eyes. His suit was black, tailored for him by a friend in the city, his shirt a brilliant white, open at his neck.

“This was complicated before we got involved. You know that.”

Beltrane dropped into a chair next to Sabatini and took a mouthful of beer from the glass.

“I know, but even then I expressed some reservations about getting involved.”

“You did,” Sabatini admitted. “But we decided to go ahead anyway. If you remember, we weighed up all the issues and concluded that the benefits outweighed the risks.”

“Yes. I remember.” Beltrane often wondered where the old man kept all his memories. Always on call, always right. Remember what is said and what is done, Sabatini had told him many years ago. What is said and what happens in the past dictates the future and where we are now. You need to remember who was involved, because there will be times when the past must catch with people. And those people must take the responsibilities that are due.

Rico had died because of that, Beltrane thought. For what had happened in the past.

“But we were told that the issue with Doyle wouldn’t surface,” Beltrane persisted.

“Yes.”

“And, at that time, it was also stated - quite clearly - that Christie’s involvement would not be a problem.”

“I remember, Franco. But it is under control.”

“Christie has to be killed. Before he talks.”

“I know.” Did this boy think he was incapable of seeing all this?

“What are we going to do about it, then?”

“You are not listening to me, Franco. I said that it is under control ..”

“What do you mean ...”

“... and ... it is under control. The Lady will fix it for us.”

“Are you sure she can handle this?”

“Yes. She has started already.” Sabatini looked into the younger man’s eyes and Beltrane knew that there was no more to be said on the issue. “Now, finish up your beer. It is almost midnight. We’ll go and lose some money.”

Beltrane looked at the gold watch on his wrist.

“Perhaps that blonde will be there tonight.”

Beltrane looked at the old man and smiled and drank the last of his beer.

*******

“No, no, no! Not like that!”

“How then?”

“Lift your leg.”

“Like this?”

“Higher.”

“Okay?”

“Fine. Stick your bum out a bit more. More. Fine.”

“This is ...”

“Be quiet. Now pull your pants down. Slowly!”

She did as she was told and the flash went off. And again. Again.

“Slowly, slowly. Hold it there!”

She stood still, holding the pose, legs bent at the knees, her backside kicked out and the top part of body leaning forward, looking ahead, profile, her panties down at mid-thigh, pulled taut across her legs, her right hand perched on the thrust-out and naked buttocks.

“Look over your shoulder. To me. Fine, fine. Open your mouth a little. Little more. Lick those lips. Fine. At me. Straight into the camera. Smile. Not that big. Sultry smile. Wait. Don’t move. Do not move.”

Robert Casey stepped quickly from behind the camera that sat on the tripod and, picking up the smaller camera that sat on the nearby table, walked closer to the model and brought the camera up to his eye. He stood in close to her, framing her head and shoulders in the viewfinder, focusing on her long black eyelashes and then firing the button. The flash burst to his right, and again, closer. Her face filled the viewfinder, again and again, pulling back and bending at the knees, shooting up, careful to make sure that the backdrop, though out of focus, didn’t cause any awkward shapes.

“Look over my right shoulder. Good, good.”

Moving round her now, still firing, allowing her breasts to come into the frame. They were magnificent breasts, he thought quickly, even in a bra.

“Okay, and look down at me now, straight into the camera. And lick your lips and .... great!”

He stopped and stood up straight. He leant forward and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek.

“Rest for a few minutes,” he said. “I need to change the card.”

She straightened up herself and pulled up her panties, covering her backside again.

“Got a drink?” she asked.

“There’s some in the fridge,” he answered, without looking at her. “Some Coke, orange juice, mineral water. Top shelf.” He unscrewed the Nikon from the tripod and took it, together with the smaller Pentax that now hung around his neck, to the a table set against the back wall of the studio. He half-sat on the table and took the digital cards from both cameras, slipping them into small plastic bags which were marked to indicate they held used cards. Casey still used film; he still had a traditional streak for quality that was required by the picture libraries and the magazine printers. But for jobs like this, the high-end digitals were more than adequate.

Casey’s grey hair was cut short and brushed back off his face. The colour of his hair was the first thing that most people noticed and they invariably dismissed him as an older man. Casey had regarded age as relative ever since he turned 50, so how people classified or compared him didn’t worry him at all. His hair had been grey since he was forty and he regarded it as an asset in his line of work. Models - especially those who posed with little or no clothing - were often suspicious of the younger photographer. They saw him as the worker in one respect, but there was always the lingering doubt that the only reason he wanted to get their pants off was to get into them. It was remarkable how many successful glamour photographers were overweight or very old or had some image that models felt safer with. The grey hair worked that way. Not that it was a problem - he’d only ever fell for three of his models and had affairs with two of them. And he was still married to the last one. He had to admit, though, that the fatherly image was an advantage. When his clients were always looking for the new face and the new body, his ability to make models feel at home - and to feel at home with their clothes off - was a real plus. He had to make the most of that advantage to keep the dollars rolling in.

Casey’s beard was also grey, framing a face that had a habit of bursting into laughter at the slightest pretence. His eyes were large and bright and blue. He wore a blue denim shirt over blue jeans. He was shoeless, having kicked the white sneakers into a corner of the studio only minutes after they’d started their session.

“Any gin?” she asked.

“Later.”

Casey watched her walk to the far corner of the studio where the fridge sat. She was, he thought, quite a magnificent creature. She wore black lingerie - bra, panties and suspender belt and stockings - and black leather high-heeled shoes. Not just with magnificent breasts, he thought, but all over. He watched her buttocks move as she walked away from him.

Her name was Tracey. Tracey with an “e” she had said, when he had first met her. That had been almost two years ago. Tracey Howard. He used her a lot, because she had a lot going for her. She had many facets to her photographability.

A lot of the models he used were used because they had a beautiful face - and nothing else. Or a good tight backside. Or great long legs. Good breasts. Neck. Hands. And depending on the job you selected the best. If he was shooting something for a hair commercial, shampoo, hats, he’d use Maggie. Great hair. Long and natural redhead that looked good loose or tied back or permed. But he’d never use Maggie for nudes - she didn’t really have a good body.

“The milk’s off.”

“There should be a new one in there. Unopened.”

“Got it!”

Casey had it all sorted out where models were concerned. After all it was a competitive field and one had to use what one could to stay one jump ahead of the pack. He’d started with a set of filing cards and he’d written the names of his models on them and under their measurements he’d indicated which of their features were the most photogenic. Maggie - hair. And ,depending on the job he was doing, he could sort through them and pick the right model. What had that been? Five years ago? Now it was a file on the computer in his office and he could sort the records in whatever way he wanted and he could collect more information that might be valuable for certain shoots. Has her own underwear - great range. Good for nudes but has a tattoo on her shoulder - careful. Great feet.

And he could cross index that with the negative file and slide number references. Now there was Lightroom, a software package that made keeping a database of photos a dream. He’d hired a young turk to set up a customised screen - name on the left hand side, telephone number, key point. Eyes. And on the right hand side of the screen two photos - one the face, the second, the eyes. Hit the keys and draw up the photo references.

But Tracey was different. The equivalent of the sportsman who was an all-rounder. Great body from all directions. She kept herself in good condition. Good face, great smile and good hair. He’d sold a set of her photos to Australian Playboy and they’d come back to ask for more. This would be a different set.

She took another drink and looked down to straighten a bra strap. The movement was there for a second, the downcast eyes, and the fringe of light across the nape of her neck, delicate fingers at the strap. He’d have snapped that picture, but it was gone. He smiled.

“Three minutes,” he said.

“Fine.” He decided that she looked great in black.

The phone rang.

“Get that will you, Trace.”

“What’d your last one die of?” She picked up the phone and said, “Casey’s Studio. Yes. Yes, he is, just a minute.”

“It’s for you, Bob.”

“Who is it?”

“Fay. Fay Walsh.”

Casey took the phone and said, “Fay? What can I do for you?”

“I’ve just had a visit from the Federal Police.”

“Police? Why?”

There was only silence at the other end of the line.

“Fay? Fay? Are you there?”

“Sorry. Yes. The police were here.”

“You said. What’s happened?”

“Amy.”

“Amy?”

“She’s been killed, Bob. They came to see me as part of their investigation.”

“Amy? Amy Deacon?”

“Yes. Yes, Amy.”

“Are they sure, Fay?”

“Yes.”

“What did they want?”

“Just information. How long she’d been working for me. People she knew. I gave them your name.”

“Amy?” He was having trouble. “My name? That ... that’s okay. Are you okay? What happened?”

“They didn’t expand too much. She’d ... she’d been shot.”

“Shot! Are they sure it’s Amy?”

“Yes, Bob. Bob, they’ll come and see you. Have you got some recent photos of her?”

“Of course. Hey, are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Come over.”

“What?”

“Come over. Stay the night.”

“I don’t think ... I ... Could I?”

“Not a problem.”

“I’d like that. Is Susie there?”

“Yeah. Come now.”

She hung up and Casey replaced the receiver slowly.

“What is it?” Tracey asked.

“Something’s come up, Tracey. Let’s call it a night.”

“All right. You okay?”

“Just some bad news. I’ll ring you later, all right? We’ll organise another day.”