I read the emails through a few times and leaned back to consider what conclusions I could draw from them. A narcissistic personality clearly, combined with brittleness and insecurity. Bobby had told me that the real threats had come in the messages sent through the website. In these she was just warming up. What I couldn’t decide was whether what she wrote was genuine or feigned. There was something formulaic about it, particularly the sexual come-on. It read a bit like an excerpt from the advertisements for phone sex. But perhaps that’s the only note you can strike when in the throes of sexual hysteria. I wasn’t sure.
I copied the emails into the file and updated the memory stick. Bobby had given me the name of the street and the number of the building, but not the number of the flat. Not surprising. It was late at night and he’d had a fair bit to drink. Also, presumably, he was in a confused mental state. When he said she wasn’t there any longer he said it the way an ordinary citizen does. I wasn’t an ordinary citizen and I was pretty sure I could find out something more. I took my mobile off the charger and made sure it was fully functioning.
Bondi again. How many times had my work taken me there? The place seemed to have a magnetic attraction for problem people and for me. Maybe I was one of them. I surfed there as a teenager and perhaps that helps to impose a grip that won’t let go. Over the years I’ve toyed with the idea of moving there. Feasible at one time, not so easy now with the prices and my new mortgage. Driving down Bondi Road, just the look of the water, grey though it was, revived memories of it when it was blue and the feeling of scudding along on a wave towards the white pavilion and the brown bodies on the sand.
I located the street and drove slowly along to the address Bobby had given me. The street was tree lined and pleasant with a mixture of houses and flats. There would probably be glimpses of the water from the upper levels. The building I was looking for was newish and smart. It had a low fence, trees and shrubs in the front, ten letterboxes at the gate and a winding pebblecrete path.
It was a set of serviced apartments, the kind that can be leased for long or short periods. Almost hidden underneath the stairs was a small concierge desk with a woman sitting bent over, staring at the screen of her mobile phone and with her fingers flying. She was in her twenties, blonde and good-looking. When she heard the door close behind me she looked up.
‘Can I help you?’
I showed her my brand spanking new licence card in its leather folder and tried to look as young as the photograph.
‘I hope so,’ I said. I handed her Miranda’s photograph. ‘I’m looking for this woman. I believe she lived here recently.’
She put the mobile on the small desk in front of her and studied the picture. ‘Is she in trouble?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘You know her?’
‘Wouldn’t say that. She was here for a while. Very short term.’
‘What apartment was she in? Do you know her name?’
She shook her head. ‘Never learned it. Didn’t want to. She was a stuck-up bitch. She was in twelve, one bedroom job.’
‘There must be a record of her time here, rent paid and all that.’
She took a card from a drawer. ‘Letting agents. They’d have that stuff. They’re in Campbell Parade. The address is on the card.’
I took the card and thanked her.
‘Are you really a private detective?’
I nodded.
She sighed. ‘That must be exciting. Don’t need a secretary, do you? This was the only job I could get although I’ve got a lot of skills. I sit here playing games on my phone.’
‘Sorry. Maybe something better’ll come along. Do you remember anything in particular about this woman, apart from not liking her?’
‘Like what?’
‘Friends.’
She snorted. ‘Wouldn’t call them friends. All blokes.’
‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’
‘Sure do.’
I thanked her again and left.
The guy in the estate agency was far less forthcoming. He was young, wore a dark suit and had gelled hair.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any information at all,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you can. For example, what’s the rent of apartment twelve? No harm in telling me that, surely.’
‘Two thousand two hundred dollars a month.’
‘Is it occupied now? I might want to rent it.’
As urged by Megan, I’d invested in some new clothes and I was wearing a lightweight grey suit and a blue shirt. No tie, but the shirt was tucked in.
A pause, and then he said, ‘It’s empty.’
‘Things are slow?’
He didn’t reply. I thought about mentioning the purpose to which Miranda appeared to have put the apartment but decided not to because it might cost the young concierge her job.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to make things difficult for you but I’ve got a client with a very serious complaint against the woman who rented that place. He’s an important person and he doesn’t want to involve the police. That’s why he’s employing me. But if I don’t make progress it’ll bring the police in eventually. Give me her name and forwarding address and that’s the last you’ll hear of it.’
He wasn’t happy. He looked across at the empty desk in the office as if hoping someone would materialise there. No such luck. He tapped on his keyboard.
‘Mary Oberon.’
‘Forwarding address?’
‘Twenty-six Hood Street, Burwood.’
‘I’m guessing she paid a substantial amount up front.’
He nodded.
‘Phone?’
He read off a mobile number and I wrote it in my notebook. Second bit of paper in the case. ‘You sighted the ID?’
‘Not me, but somebody must have. That’s all. . please.’
I could have pressed him for bank details and other things but I took pity on him. Suspicious sceptic that I am, I had doubts that the information was genuine. Perhaps the name, if I was lucky, but false ID isn’t hard to get.
I had a track of Springsteen’s
‘Hardy.’
‘Cliff, it’s Bobby. You were right. There’s a white Commodore following me.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know. I just picked it up. But I’m pretty sure.’
