Brunswick street blues, p.19
Brunswick Street Blues, page 19
I dug a jar of pickles out from the back of the fridge. Looking at the use-by date, they should have been eaten at least five years earlier.
‘I rang an old journo mate of my father,’ Mitch said. ‘He did the police round for decades and knows more about Melbourne crime than most criminals. It took a bit of prodding, but he finally remembered something about this woman, Nora. Her estranged husband was a former football player, that’s why my mate remembers it. Played for Fitzroy.
The husband had no alibi, had been drunk off his head at the time of her death. No trial, though. He hung himself in the lockup and the case was closed.’ Mitchell watched me wrestle with the lid of the pickle jar. ‘A couple of years later—while my dad’s mate was covering a completely different case—it came out that this woman’s husband was actually in the drunk tank for the entire night that she died. The paperwork was misfiled. The old fella tried to get some interest in the story, but the woman had no surviving relatives and the police closed ranks as usual. As a long-time police reporter, sometimes he had to choose his battles.’
‘So your friend reckons that Nora’s ex-husband didn’t do it.’ I gave the jar’s lid a whack with a knife edge in a bid to loosen it up.
‘Unless the cops were way off about the time of her death, which is another possibility of course. But judging by the blackmail attempt, I’d say Errol Grimes may have been romantically involved with Nora at some time. Is that possible?’
‘If he was playing football and she was part of that scene, I guess it’s possible they knew each other.’
‘From the photo, she was a pretty woman. It’s no secret he was a bit of a pants man before he got into politics. Since getting into politics he’s been discreet—only dated the posh types like Mavis—probably so people don’t think he’s gay. Is there anyone who would know if Grimes and Nora had had some kind of relationship?’
‘Well, Baz maybe … but we can’t ask him since he’s still bloody missing.’
‘Nora’s husband’s dead. No kids. Did she have any friends that you remember?’
‘No idea. I was only about ten, I barely remember her.’
‘Yet your memory now is near photographic. Am I right?’
‘It’s not photographic.’ I shook the jar, wondering whether smashing it on the footpath outside was too extreme. ‘I’ve just worked in a bar for too long.’
‘We’re getting nowhere with this speculation.’ Mitchell took the jar off me and opened it with a quick twist. ‘I’m sick of powerful men who can hide in the shadows. Politicians like Grimes and their big business buddies like Mullett. They surround themselves with minders and bully boys who control access. Where’s the accountability? How can reporters do their job properly if they’re not allowed to even question the power brokers? How can anyone be expected to keep them in check?’
‘I know where you can find Mullett and Grimes.’ Mavis had entered the kitchen without us noticing. She was wearing my tracksuit pants and one of my favourite jumpers. ‘Flemington Racecourse. They’ve got horses running in the Melbourne Cup.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course they do.’
Mitchell, however, had a manic gleam in his eye, and I almost expected him to embrace Mavis. ‘That’s a great idea! The best idea I’ve heard all day!’
‘What idea?’ She took a step back from him, looking worried.
‘The Cup. Mullett will be there! I’ll confront him face to face. I’ll finish my father’s investigation once and for all.’
I nibbled a pickle. It still seemed edible. ‘That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. You can’t just rock up to the Melbourne Cup and find people like Dave Mullett. He’ll be in one of the VIP areas.’
‘Getting into Uruzgan Province wasn’t easy. People said it couldn’t be done.’
‘Didn’t you get kidnapped?’ I recalled the photo of Mitchell as a hostage. ‘I’m not letting you go there. Your body will be found in a burnt-out car under the Bolte Bridge. I think your boss may have been right about you having PTSD.’
‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black.’
I decided to shut myself in the bathroom for a while.
I put on a Dinah Washington CD and then sat on the edge of the bath with a cold flannel on my face. I couldn’t seem to stop images of Nora’s face rising up in my mind. Maybe I just needed to confront the past head on—find out if Errol Grimes was the bogeyman from my nightmares, or just a run-of-the-mill arsehole with too much power and a nasty attitude towards women.
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ I said when I returned to the kitchen. ‘If you’re determined to go on this fool’s mission to the Cup, I’m coming with you. You want to talk to Mullett. I want to see Grimes in the flesh. And you need a minder or you’ll get yourself killed.’
‘I didn’t know you cared.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bonus of Mitchell’s Melbourne Cup idea was that it gave me a project to help keep my mind off things. I stayed up half the night rebirthing a dress I’d worn on stage a few years earlier when an extra back-up singer was required at short notice. It had a bit of a fifties feel to it and matching gloves—a handy way of covering my shredded nails.
Timmy loaned Mitchell a suit he’d recently worn to a family wedding. It didn’t fit too badly—a little tight around the shoulders perhaps, but otherwise Mitchell looked disturbingly suave. He’d even run a comb through his hair.
I inspected myself in the mirror, but still felt my outfit was missing something. ‘You don’t have a hat or a fascinator, do you?’
‘I barely even know what a fascinator is.’ Bunny wasn’t big on dressing up.
I made do with a large silk flower in a complementary shade of pink sewn to a hair clip. The colour reminded me of the dress I’d worn as a small girl. The one Nora had bought me. A memory appeared of us together at the shop. I’d never had anything so beautiful before in my life and I’d loved Nora from that moment.
I tied my hair back into a chignon, which I lacquered to within an inch of its wilful life. Then I put the hairspray in my handbag. I read somewhere that you could use hairspray for self-defence in lieu of mace. You just had to have the presence of mind to retrieve it from your bag, take off the lid and spray it directly into your assailant’s eyes. It was that or stab them with a nail file.
I emerged from my bedroom, quite happy with my efforts.
‘Brick. You look like a princess,’ said Bunny.
‘Spoken like a true imperialist.’ I gave a vampish twirl.
‘No, you like one of those old-time movie stars,’ said Timmy.
‘You mean from the 1980s?’ I looked at Mitchell to see if he had any feedback.
He looked me up and down. ‘You’ll do. Let’s go.’
We caught a taxi to Flemington to save us battling with public transport. The racing carnival is always a bit of a strange time in Melbourne. Some years I’d forget it was happening and then wonder why people on the street were dressed as if they were going to a wedding. A very large, very posh wedding.
Hours later, of course, it would be another story. Women would be sporting panda eyes and ruined hairdos, men would have crumpled jackets slung over their shoulders. Most would be weaving and twenty per cent would need to use their hat as an impromptu vomit bag. No one could lower the tone faster than an Australian.
It was just after two o’clock when we set off towards the gates and there were people everywhere. The only bonus of the crowds was that I felt sure that whoever had chased me the other day would have no hope of finding us among the tens of thousands of people. I hadn’t been to the Cup in about eight years. I used to do some casual waitressing during the carnival but finally decided that no penalty rates were worth walking through that much vomit.
In the 150-odd years of the Melbourne Cup, it had grown to develop its own sociological system and the Flemington Racecourse is divided accordingly. The general admission area is the domain of the so-called lower classes, fondly known as bogans. In this area the men usually wear exactly the same outfit as their ten best mates. The more high-minded hoi polloi fork out more cash to enter the grandstand areas. They generally wear a suit or dress and a hat scrounged off a mate or bought from a chain store. But Australia’s high society and semi-celebrity class plan their designer outfits in the same way people plan an Everest expedition. They have tickets to exclusive VIP marquees in an area known as the Birdcage and their tickets cost hundreds of dollars—or can’t be bought at all but are distributed by the corporate entities that thrive on the worship of the Great God of Gambling.
‘I’ve looked into it,’ said Mitchell. ‘Mullett will be in the Emirates tent.’
‘So have you managed to swing us an invitation as well?’
It worried me that Mitchell did not reply.
He steered us towards our target like a safari guide beating a way through the jungle. Alcohol had been flowing freely since dawn and people were starting to revert to their animal state.
The word ‘marquee’ didn’t really accurately describe the pleasure domes that were erected at Flemington for the rich and/or beautiful people. They were more like palaces. And like palaces, there were guards at the door. It was strictly invitation only.
‘Follow my lead,’ muttered Mitchell as he strode up to the bouncer outside the Emirates marquee. ‘Hello, I’ve lost my invitation, but I’m Mitch Mitchell, you probably recognise me from TV. James Packer can vouch for me.’
The bouncer was as large and as impassive as an Easter Island statue. ‘Invitation only.’
‘No, really, I insist.’ Mitchell was nothing if not persistent. ‘Is there a manager we can talk to?’
‘I am the manager.’ Either the bouncer didn’t watch much current affairs or he wasn’t a fan of Mitchell’s work. ‘If you don’t leave, I’ll have you removed.’
We skulked off. ‘“You might recognise me from TV”? Is that the best you could come up with?’
‘Have you got any better ideas?’ Mitchell sounded cranky.
I remembered from my waitressing days that there was another entrance for the staff. ‘Let’s go around the back and see if there’s a way in there.’
I led the way through the throng, but there was some heavy-looking security placed at the hospitality entrance as well.
‘It’s not looking good,’ I said. ‘We can’t pass for waitstaff dressed like this.’
‘Maybe we could cut our way in via one of other the marquees,’ said Mitchell.
‘You got a knife on you?’
‘No.’
An idea popped into my head. ‘Can I borrow your phone?’
‘Sure.’
It was a new-fangled smartphone like Brucie’s, but luckily I’d humoured Brucie when he’d wanted to show me every single aspect of this wonderful new technology. I opened Mitchell’s contacts and sure enough, Selena was there. Before Mitchell could see what I was doing, I sent her a text. I hear you’re looking for Brick Brown. Get me into the Emirates tent and I’ll give you exclusive vision rights.
Where R U? The quick response made me think we had a chance.
Outside. Problem with bouncers.
Wait there.
Don’t bring camera now or she’ll run.
Five minutes later the boofhead at security got a call and decided to let us in. I couldn’t help but be a bit impressed: Selena had connections and knew how to use them. But I still wasn’t convinced that this mission was going to come up with any goods.
As we entered the marquee I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Dutch courage. Inside it was amazingly lavish, including a chandelier that looked like it had been acquired from a French aristocrat who was downsizing. Among the crowd I recognised various faces—TV weathermen, soap opera actors and footballers were stuffing down the hors d’oeuvres and free grog. Already some of the soapie starlets looked a bit wobbly on their stilettos. Not surprising since most of them didn’t look old enough to drink.
‘Is there some super VIP area that he might be in?’ I asked. ‘These guys all look pretty C-list.’
‘Let’s mingle and see what we can find out,’ said Mitchell.
‘You lead the way. I won’t know anyone here. Except maybe a couple of guys in the band.’
‘Fine.’ Mitchell grabbed my hand and pulled me towards a throng of people hovering near a food table. They had to be journalists, judging by the speed with which they were ambushing any waiters who emerged with trays of food.
‘Biggsy,’ said Mitchell, grasping the hand of a short, thickset man and shaking vigorously. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Mitchell.’ The man nearly coughed up a smoked mussel on his shiny-looking suit. ‘I heard you were back in the country. Good to see you. You’re looking well after the whole kidnap thing.’
‘This is Brick,’ Mitchell said, and my own hand was pulverised by a large sweaty mitt.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Biggsy, his eyes hovering at my chest area. ‘She’s lovely, Mitchell. Well done.’
I decided to spill a drink on him as soon as practical, although I doubted it would make his suit look any worse.
‘So, what movers and shakers have we got here this year?’ asked Mitchell.
‘It’s the same group of wannabes and hangers-on as last year,’ said the man, stuffing another hors d’oeuvre in his face.
‘What about the serious money? Where are they hiding?’
‘I think they’re upstairs watching the races, boring old farts. It’s much more fun down here. This champagne is sixty dollars a bottle!’ He lurched after a waiter, who saw him coming and swerved in the opposite direction. I grabbed a fresh glass from another passing waiter. Who knew when I’d get another chance to taste real French champagne?
‘Steady on.’ Mitchell frowned. ‘You may need your wits about you.’
I rolled my eyes, but no sooner had he spoken than he was proven true. Emerging from the crowd was Selena in a shimmery blue dress and some headwear that looked like a cross between a hat, a fascinator and a pandanus plant. It was hanging down over her eyes, obscuring most of her expression, but judging by the amount of teeth she was flashing, she was very happy to see us.
‘Mitch, sweetie, and my old friend Brick! I didn’t know you two knew each other! Is there something going on here?’ She waggled her finger flirtatiously.
‘Selena! Fancy seeing you here,’ I said as insincerely as possible.
‘I’m here every year, babe. Haven’t you seen me on the news? I was runner-up in Fashions on the Field last year. The designers were all begging me to wear one of their dresses this year. What do you think, Mitch?’ Selena gave a twirl as she smiled coquettishly at Mitchell.
‘It’s unusual.’ Mitchell looked singularly unimpressed.
‘You’re looking so well, Mitch. I’m glad you’re getting on with things.’ Selena attempted to look sensitive and caring.
‘Who are you here with?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Oh, my boyfriend’s just over there.’ She waved gaily at a man whose large stature was unsuited to his baby blue suit with dark blue trim, reminiscent of something I’d last seen in a John Hughes flick from the 1980s. Footballers were bigger fashion victims than their girlfriends these days. I would have hardly thought it possible.
Mitchell pointedly avoided looking interested in Selena’s romantic choices. ‘So can you get us into the VIP area?’
Selena smiled like a joyful Cheshire cat. ‘Follow me.’
She set off through the crowd, swaying in her teetering heels yet still managing to text as she walked. No doubt she was summoning a camera crew so she could ambush me as quickly as possible.
Mitchell was striding behind Selena without a backward glance—totally focussed on his mission—and the crowd parted to let them through. They attracted glances from people who would no doubt be gossiping about their alleged reunion the second they had the opportunity. I was content to be attracting no attention at all.
We approached a door with more bouncers either side but this time, due to Selena’s magic, they let us through with a mere nod. I scanned for exits and gave thanks I was wearing waitressing-appropriate heels. I was going to run for it at the first sight of a grumpy-looking man in a polo shirt, well before he could hoist his camera onto his shoulder.
This second room was even more luxuriously decorated than the first. A life-sized ice sculpture of a horse stood on the bar, melting quietly under the designer lighting. Garlands of exotic flowers were woven around columns, adding to the scent of power and money that rolled off these people who occupied a strata of society high, high above the nouveau riche, famous, drunk and giddy crowd we’d just left behind. This room was more sparsely populated with tastefully dressed people who wouldn’t blink an eye at thousand-dollars-a-bottle champagne and caviar on a biscuit that definitely wasn’t a Jatz.
‘Here we are.’ Selena made a sweeping gesture as we entered, in the manner of a gameshow hostess.
Mitchell leaned forward as if to whisper a special thanks in her ear and tipped his entire glass of champagne down her front. Although there was very little cloth to get ruined, Selena looked horrified. Like an enraged baby, she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Mitchell took my hand as he strode over to the bar to get a refill, leaving Selena to run straight for the ladies’ room.
‘She is really going to get you for that,’ I said as I accepted a glass of the special room champagne. ‘She’s already out to get me.’
‘Wear it as a badge of honour,’ Mitchell replied as he scanned the room in a businesslike fashion.
‘I reckon we’ve got about five minutes before she comes back with a camera crew. Do you see him anywhere?’
Mitchell didn’t answer, but I could see by the way he squared his shoulders that he’d spotted his target. I looked over. In the flesh, Dave Mullett was not an overly big man, but he stood out even in this group of super VIPs. More than his startling white hair and impeccably tailored navy suit, he wore an aura of power. Ruthlessness and power. A large man, the same one who’d attended the planning meeting, was hovering nearby. He was wearing a black suit like before and designer sunglasses, although he’d changed his facial hair design from a goatee to sideburns.
