Chapter 9
The Morning of Saturday, 19th November, 1988
Dana Roberts is Sally Brown
A Job to Do
I was a bit nervous thinking about tonight’s job at the Ruslen mansion, as The Sarge had contacted me, first thing this morning, and filled me in on how Harry’s investigation was fast turning into a ‘dog’s breakfast’. It seems that Ruslen had been clued into Harry’s snooping activities right from the beginning. The Sarge also told me, somewhat solemnly, that an informant had been murdered in the act of giving Harry information yesterday. I did not mention the stone through the window.
I then thought about how my being at Julianna’s Nightclub last night, at the same time as Harry, must have looked suspicious to Ruslen, especially, as I was working at the Ruslen mansion tonight. Then there was the fact that I had been snooping about Bondi, asking questions about Tabra Hayden and showing people photos of the missing women. Perhaps Ruslen was already onto me and he had simply been teasing and taunting me last night?
The Sarge also said that there was some talk filtering down, from the top brass, about this assignment being aborted. I said not yet. Though, I did agree to the wearing of a wiretap for tonight. In the meantime, I was driving toward Potts Point to snoop around the apartment where the second missing woman, June Roze, had lived. Sadly we didn’t know much more about June Roze, or Lee Lin, other than their last known address.
We had details about Tabra Hayden’s estranged family, where she went to school, and who some of her employers and former boy friends were. June Roze and Lee Lin, however, were foreign nationals and both seemed to have travelled under the radar. Not even the local shop keepers appeared to remember them. I sighed.
I turned on the radio, to the official sounding introduction to the news, followed by the mechanical voice of the news reader. ‘Yesterday President Ronald Reagan signed a bill providing the death penalty for drug king pins’….. I hit the steering wheel in anger. The death penalty only functions as a form of revenge, I ranted to myself. It does not work as a deterrent and it leaves no chance for redemption. I shook my head. On a smaller scale, this was emblematic of what we struggled with in Australia: the desire of governments to appear tough, authoritative and strong on certain types of crime. The problem is that it is often the case that, harsh, punitive punishments, simply made matters worse. They make people more angry and violent and less likely to regret their actions and more likely to be resentful. But at the same time, we often seemed to have this very lax attitude to corporate crimes and our government often turned a blind eye to dirty money generated by criminal syndicates. None of it made sense, and it made me feel like throwing in the job sometimes.
I came to stop outside a block of flats in Cowper Wharf Road, Potts Point and looked up to the third floor. June Roze had lived at flat number 14 until a couple of months ago. What a glorious place to live, with panoramic views of the ocean and the city; the melodic call of sea gulls in the background and a balmy, sea breeze to soothe body and spirit, night and day. And then she disappeared. Her disappearance was sudden; there was no note left, all her clothing was still in her wardrobe, and there were no major withdrawals from the bank. In fact, her bank account had not been used since she disappeared. Not a good sign.
Police had been alerted because of the putrid smells coming from her unit. When the door was broken down, her six cats were found dead, in an advanced state of decay. It had been an unseasonably hot month.
In searching her flat, police had found that June Roze possessed an extensive collection of designer clothing: Yves Saint Laurent, Christian Dior, Giorgio Armani. These were but few of the names that adorned her fancy gladrags. She owned the apartment too: in her own name, straight out, with no loans. Bought in cash, as it seemed was the furniture, and the clothing collection; a very different story to, Tabra Hayden, who appeared to be living week by week, with no savings to speak of. The police did not find a passport, however, or visa, or any indication about how or when June Roza had entered the country.
I walked up the steep pathway toward the block of flats, stopping for a moment to admire a beautiful flower in the manicured front garden. I love plants and always have my eyes peeled for a new cutting to add to the large and ever growing pot plant collection, on my rented balcony. Looking up, I spotted a very elegant, elderly woman with a large, yellow, sun hat coming around the corner of the apartment building, holding an orange watering can. She was heading toward the front door and would soon begin to punch in the security code. So I vaulted forward to waylay her before she vanished.
‘Hello, hello, there.’ I called, trying to simulate some type of European accent. June Roze had some unidentifiable accent.
The lady turned around and lifted one bright red eyebrow in my direction and lifted the watering can in front of her, as though to ward me off.
‘Hello, I have just arrived in Australia and I am looking for my dear, old, school friend, June Roze. She gave me this address but she does not answer her phone or my letters for months now. I am so worried’. I set my face in what I hoped was a suitably distraught expression.
The elderly lady’s face softened and the watering can went down. She patted me on the arm, which was quite emotional for a member of the quality. They don’t generally like overt emotional displays.
‘I am so sorry, my dear, but I must tell you that your friend is the subject of a police investigation. She has disappeared. Without a trace.’
‘Oh no! I replied downheartedly. ‘Then I added. ‘I have not seen her for so many years; it is so sad. But she must be found. Is there anything you can tell me about my dear friend that I can share at our school reunion?’ I thought that I had overplayed this bit of rambling theatre, as the elderly lady looked very severe for a moment. Then she said:
‘My dear, your friend was a very private person, but I do know that she owned a swimwear company called Blackarrow and that she would often model the bikinis herself. She was so exceedingly attractive…..However, interestingly, the police did ask me whether I knew of connection between Ms Roze and the Ruslen family. I did not, but I was happy to be reminded of my dear old friend, Kristina Ruslen, as we had worked together on so many charity events over the years.’ Then, the old dear looked at me so craftily, with eyes so beady and bright, leaving me to ponder whether Kristina Ruslen was indeed her friend, or her enemy.
I had heard that the Ruslen’s were known to be involved in various charities, but I also recalled that the shop assistant in the Bondi surf shop, had mentioned the swimwear brand name, Blackarrow, when I visited the shop. The lady then looked thoughtful and added:
‘I am originally from Moscow, when I was a very young girl, and your friend, Ms Roze, hailed from there too, although she moved about a lot. I caught her accent straight away, from the very first word, when she knocked on my door one day and asked my daughter to move her car, from the front of her garage.’ She touched my arm lightly, ‘the young can be so thoughtless’.
I realised that I had dug myself a very big hole and had fallen in it. This lady knew I was a fake, she was telling me so, and yet, still, she was providing me with some very useful information…If it was true.
‘Did you tell the police this’, I asked.
‘I don’t think so my dear, but I’m telling you’, she smiled and then backed away. Sensing that I was dismissed, I thanked her and departed.
I had to smile and wonder how many people had also underestimated that wily, sharp-witted woman. I felt she was telling me something important, if only I could figure it out.
As I walked back to the car, a man who looked like he had a perennial toothache was standing next to my car, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. His sausage like fingers were gripping the leash of a highly perfumed, and coiffured, peach coloured, pooch, and he was breathing heavily through his great pyramid of a nose. As I came closer to where the man stood, he began to tap one of his expensive, boat shoes, to communicate his anno
yance with me. I immediately thought about Angelo at the nightclub; there might be a market for Italians shoes, right here.
‘Excuse me young lady but you do happen to realise that you have parked this car on a roadway? This is not a parking spot, you know? You are damned lucky that it is Sunday and so there is little traffic.’
I looked at this man, flaunting his expensive, Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, and feeling smug with all his trappings of success. But I felt like saying, do you know that Ralph Lauren’s real name is Ralph Lifshitz? That’s the kind of stuff I feel like doing, but I don’t actually do. Sometimes, I’m gutless, I guess.
‘I should call the police by rights’, he continued.
My stomach dropped. At this rate, the only person who would be apprehended during this assignment would be me.
As I zoomed away, the boating man glared after me like a malignant troll, so I poked my tongue out, like I was three years old, and funnily enough, this made me feel better. I drove down New South Head Road and as I stopped at the lights near Ocean Street, I glanced over and saw that Harry was sitting in the next car. He didn’t see me though, and we went off in different directions. I was heading down to Darlinghurst, an eclectic, inner city, neighbourhood, where Lee Lin used to work in a massage parlour. Officially, her working visa only allowed her to work in the laundry, which was the front business.
I mused over the fact that June Roze had no work permit, and that her swimwear appeared to be manufactured overseas, and imported into Australia. However, how June Roze herself had actually came into this country, was a mystery?
After I had parked the car in a little back street, I jogged down the busy road for some way, past skinny, Victorian, terrace houses, which had seen better days, until I came to the Laundromat. Then I whipped across the road, jaywalking between the banked up waiting cars and slipped into a quaint little coffee shop. I ordered coffee and a semolina cake, and went and sat down in front of the open long, front window, which faced the lively traffic and stared at the building across the road. The coffee was nutty and fragrant and the cake was moreish and chewy, but I realised that I had no actual plan here. I could not simply wander down that alleyway across the road, next to the Laundromat, and then take the stairs which led to the brothel and knock on the door. What would I say? That I wanted a job?
I sat there for over an hour, drinking a few more cups of coffee and sampling more of the establishments, sweet delights, and staring stupidly at the window above the Laundromat, hoping that something would happen. Nothing did. I thought about quizzing the coffee shop staff, but I had overheard one of them telling another customer that everyone who worked here came from a country town called Bathurst. And they were all related to the owner, who had migrated from Athens via London. That anyone here would know anything about the brothel across the road, and by association, Lee Lin, did not sound too promising.
I’m flogging a dead horse here I finally decided. So I got up and left. I had to start thinking about getting ready for tonight.