The William S Club

  ‘Show me.’

  William keyed in a long, complicated passkey, logging on to the network.

  The mouse hovered over a file marked ‘live action feeds’.

  The screen filled with small moving thumbnails. Hundreds of them.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Father and son stared at the computer, trying to locate the correct video.

  ‘There.’ Bill pointed at the second row. ‘Red scarf.’

  William clicked the link. It opened a full-resolution streaming video.

  Both men gasped.

  ‘She looks just like her,’ Bill said.

  ‘A mirror image,’ added William.

  Charlotte Burke was a beautiful woman but they had not gone to the trouble of installing microscopic cameras for voyeuristic value.

  At this stage of the game, bargaining power was far more crucial.

  ‘Last passenger is on board,’ the hostess said, hanging up the phone.

  ‘Thanks. Can you let the pilot know?’

  On a commercial plane, the upper floor would have been dedicated to first class but here it had been modified to include two ensuite bedrooms, a gym, an office, a commercial-grade kitchen, and a private lounge.

  At the far end of the lounge sat the cockpit.

  Downstairs was a boardroom, a theatre, the passenger lounges and a galley kitchen.

  Compared to his brother’s plane, the amenities were crude.

  The plane taxied away from the hangar, the powerful engines roaring to life, propelling the plane down the runway.

  Thirty seconds later, they left terra firma, breaking through a soupy mix of smog and thunderclouds to the blue skies beyond.

  Damon put down his newspaper.

  Time to meet his guests.

  Charlotte was struggling with a number of disturbing memories.

  Memories she thought she had left behind.

  Unfortunately, like images stored in a computer’s hard drive, they were always there.

  A deleted file could still be recalled with the right prompt.

  And for Charlotte, Harvey Incorporated was one such prompt.

  Images came rushing up from her deepest subconscious. Assaulting, attacking, offering up visions Charlotte never wanted to see again.

  A woman sprawled across a frayed duvet, black vomit, tiny yellow pills.

  A man sandwiched between four Federal Police, wrists encircled by steel manacles, crestfallen, spiralling from hero to criminal.

  Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc.

  The words bounced around her brain, forming a staccato like high heels on ceramic tiles.

  A pre-schooler paralysed with fear, alone in a house full of strangers.

  She gulped the champagne.

  How could two words threaten so much?

  Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc.

  Train wheels on a mountain track.

  Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc.

  A metronome in her high school music room.

  Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc.

  She didn’t want to remember. Not now, not ever.

  All she wanted was to forget.

  One glass. Two. Three. A bottle.

  Finally, the bubbles did their job and the horrors retreated back into the past.

  Damon made his way along the corridor, taking a moment to introduce himself to every guest, making each feel welcome and important; the centre of his universe.

  It was harder than it looked.

  So far he’d been subjected to sycophantic flattery, narcissistic bragging and such outrageous flirting from some of the women that it bordered on being stalkerish.

  One guy spent five minutes talking about himself and his job as nightclub correspondent for The Guardian.

  It was the longest five minutes of Damon’s life.

  Nightclub correspondent. Was that even a title?

  Who were these people and where had his grandfather found them?

  They were vapid, sex crazed children who made Damon feel like a geriatric at thirty.

  Was this really the best the British media had to offer?

  Damon’s blood quickened, galloping through his veins like thoroughbreds at Ascot. He was drawing closer to his real target – Charlotte Burke.

  No, the teenage hormones had not rubbed off on him. He didn’t have anything untoward in mind.

  But he couldn’t deny that she intrigued him.

  The William S Club didn’t often take such a vested interest in an individual. That they were so fixated on Burke made Damon even more determined to figure out why.

  One thing was certain. Her photo didn’t do her justice.

  Blonde curls swept down her back, falling in loose ringlets around her shoulders and face.

  Fifteen centimetres of tanned thighs were exposed between the bottom of her denim skirt and the tops of her brown high-heeled boots. A blue coat was folded over her lap, a bright red woollen hat and scarf stuffed into the pockets.

  As far as he could tell, she wore no makeup. Then again, he was hardly an expert on these things.

  He cleared his throat and she gazed up at him.

  Black lashes framed eyes so brown Damon felt he had just fallen into a pool of melted chocolate.

  ‘Hi. You must be Charlotte.’

  Floating, dreaming of Paris - the sites, the smells, the people.

  The gentle rumble of the plane engine merged with the champagne to make Charlotte sleepy.

  Even before he spoke, Charlotte had sensed someone studying her. When she did look up she saw only a fuzzy blur. It took a second longer for her eyes to refocus.

  Her student was tall enough that he had to stoop to avoid colliding with the plane roof. She estimated around six foot three or four.

  His tousled hair was crow black, a few strands hanging above piercing blue eyes.

  The charcoal pin striped suit looked handmade; a red silk tie pressed flat against a crisp white shirt breaking up the monotonous shade.

  He offered his hand.

  Just visible beneath the cuffs of his jacket were a pair of simple monogrammed cufflinks.

  She stared at the cufflinks, her alcohol-addled brain toying with possible explanations for the DH; giggling when she assumed the worst – Dick Head.

  He hadn’t stopped talking the whole time but Charlotte had missed most of it.

  ‘…just introducing myself…take a seat…Damon…’

  He sat beside her and she turned to look at him, the action making her head spin and the champagne threaten to re-emerge.

  Spicy aftershave caressed her nostrils and tingled her lips.

  Consulting a clipboard in front of him, he asked her about her job at The Telegraph.

  Who is this guy and why is he sitting so close?

  Heat rolled off his leg like monsoonal waves on a beach.

  ‘…short notice. Only had a day myself…’

  Ah, a Harvey employee.

  ‘And you?’

  Why the small talk?

  ‘Less than hour.’

  ‘Did you even get to read the press kit?’ He laughed, the sound like glasses tinkling together.

  Charlotte shook her head. Apart from their first stop in Paris, she hadn’t got any further through the itinerary.

  ‘I’ll give you a quick run down if you like. Paris, Nice, Venice, Portofino, Dubai, Hong Kong, Phuket, Bali and Sydney… that’s your neck of the woods, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sydney?’ Bile rose in her throat, her stomach slapping against her ribs like water against a boat.

  ‘Your home town, isn’t it?’ The gentle hand on her arm became a firebrand.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  She tried to undo the seat belt. She had to get away from him.

  ‘Damon. Damon Harvey. I mentioned that before…’

  Like a train careening out of control, she was powerless to stop the vomit that forced its way from her mouth into his lap.

  Chapter Five:

  Damon emerged from the bathroom just as th
e plane touched the tarmac at Orly International Airport, hair damp, his soiled suit crumpled in the corner.

  His suitcase was stowed underneath the plane but the closets were always stocked with a selection of brand new clothes – a mobile boutique.

  He selected fresh underwear, jeans, a casual shirt and a sports jacket.

  By the time he was dressed, the passengers had started disembarking.

  He should be down there, doing his job, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to face Burke just yet.

  Something about his name had spooked her.

  But what?

  Until yesterday, Damon had never heard of Charlotte Burke, so why the strong reaction? What did she know about him?

  More importantly, what game was his grandfather playing?

  He ducked low, checking out the window to see if the coast was clear.

  A procession of cars had started their slow exit out of the airport.

  He might be hiding but he still found his eyes searching her out.

  Maybe she had already left.

  No, there she was; a red hat pulled low over her curls, one glove in her mouth while she pulled the other on.

  A dark haired girl approached her. They hugged, a warm smile creasing Burke’s face.

  What a stark contrast to the reception he had received.

  The two women climbed into the back of the customary Mercedes.

  Damon had lost count of how many his family owned.

  He was starting to realise there was a lot he didn’t know about his family.

  Chandeliers hung like fairy lights in the towering foyer of the Suites Enchantées de Paradis on Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

  The entrance alone was easily bigger than Zac Wilson’s entire apartment.

  Tuxedoed waiters held circular trays containing fizzy water, some prissy little finger foods and hot cloths that smelled vaguely of lemons.

  Zac grabbed a pastry, biting into it, instantly regretting his action.

  The filling was some kind of meat. Tasted like goat’s balls.

  Using the facecloth, he spat out the offending food, putting the cloth back on the tray.

  It was his first trip outside the UK.

  Hell, it was his first time out of London in almost three years.

  But why would he want to leave?

  He had a job most men would envy. A different club every night, paid for by the newspaper.

  They weren’t quite as generous with his expense account but the club owners more than made up for the shortfall, plying him with free alcohol and food.

  Oh, they wanted good publicity in return but Zac had no problems writing positive reviews. It was the least he could do to keep his lifestyle.

  There was a perk that was a billion times better than alcohol and food.

  Women. Lots and lots of women. A different one every night if he wanted.

  He’d write as much positive fluff as they wanted.

  Now it seemed his luck had sky rocketed into the stratosphere.

  Instead of a different club each night, it would be a different country.

  And all the wine, women and song he could handle.

  All provided free of charge by Harvey Incorporated.

  Who wouldn’t love that?

  Zac smiled to himself, watching two beautiful ladies sashay past him, their provocative hips swaying as they giggled like naughty schoolgirls.

  In his mind, they were already undressed.

  Which one would he choose?

  One was dark and small, the other tall and golden. Both babes in their own way. Both completely shaggable.

  Why choose Zac? It’s New Year’s Eve. Why not go for a ménage a trois.

  He was in Paris. The city for making love.

  Anything was possible.

  ‘Look at this place,’ Miranda Evans said, her jaw dropping open as she stared at the enormous lobby.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Charlotte. She had a soft spot for historic buildings.

  This one looked to be from the mid 16th Century.

  Palladian windows showcased the famous Parisian street, showing a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

  The Suites Enchantées de Paradis rubbed shoulders with influential neighbours – the Paris Marriott on one side, an Armani boutique on the other.

  The revered George V Hotel resided one street behind.

  A waiter offered them sparkling water and warm lemongrass fragranced facecloths.

  The smell reminded Charlotte of Thailand.

  ‘Are you still working for that guy? Highwhatshisname?’

  ‘Highgrove? Don’t mention his name. He’s not my favourite person today.’

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘Well, he sent me on this trip…’ Saying it out loud sounded kind of lame, especially now that she had caught up with Miranda.

  Miranda feigned indignation. ‘I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘Sorry. And you? Are you still at the Sun?’

  ‘Yeah. Still writing trashy tabloid fodder and celebrity sex scandals. You want to know who Robbie is screwing?’

  ‘Sure. Who?’

  ‘Kate. She’s always had a thing for grungy rock stars. Not that Robbie is that grungy. I’d let him park his shoes under my bed any day. Wonder if he’s going to be at this party tonight?’

  ‘What party?’

  Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘Did you even read the bloody itinerary?’

  ‘I was getting around to it.’

  ‘There’s going to be a massive New Year’s Eve party tonight. An A-list party. You know what that means?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s going to be a bunch of assholes present.’

  ‘Ha ha. You’re hilarious. No hot actors for you.’

  ‘Yeah right. What celebrity is going to be interested in us?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll all be interested in you. I’ll have to take your leftovers. If the celebs are half as hot as the guys on this trip, I’ll be a very happy girl. Speaking of which, did you get a load of Damon Harvey? Hot, hot, hot.’

  ‘Umm, yeah, I got a really good look at him,’ Charlotte said, smiling at the memory. ‘Just before I puked in his lap.’

  ‘That was you?’ Miranda tried hard to hold back the laughter but it came out as a loud guffaw instead. ‘Sorry.’

  She didn’t sound sorry.

  Charlotte pushed the elevator button, waiting for the next car to descend to the lobby.

  ‘Regurgitated Bollinger right in his lap.’

  ‘He is so gorgeous. I’d kick Robbie out of my bed for him.’

  ‘Looks aren’t everything. He’s probably a spoiled little rich boy. Not my type at all.’

  ‘So what is your type?’

  ‘That bellboy over there is kind of cute.’

  ‘Charlotte, he’s tall, dark and handsome. You just described Damon Harvey.’

  ‘Shut up. You sound like a giddy teenager. Believe me; Damon Harvey couldn’t be further from my mind.’

  The second she said his name, Damon materialized around the corner, as if her words had conjured him out of thin air.

  Chapter Six:

  The taxi driver parked across the street from a red brick council house in Western Sydney.

  ‘You sure this is the address?’

  In the middle of a lawn masquerading as a jungle sat a rusted out car body, the metal slowly decomposing and feeding the grass.

  The front gate hung off its hinges and half the cyclone wire on the fence had been cut away, leaving just the metal poles.

  Baker checked the slip of paper. ‘Yeah, this is it.’

  ‘You want me to wait?’

  He nodded. ‘Just drive down a bit. Don’t want them seeing the taxi.’

  ‘Okay mate, but don’t be long. A driver was bashed here a couple months back. Bastards put him in hospital.’

  Baker swallowed hard, filled with confidence.

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  He walked up the over
grown path, rapping hard on the front door.

  There was movement behind the door but nobody emerged for a good five minutes or so.

  He knocked again.

  The front door cracked open just a smidgen.

  A woman in her mid-fifties pressed her face to the crack. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  A finger went to her mouth, the nail bitten short, the skin around it bleeding and cracked.

  ‘You know what fucking time it is?’

  He nodded. ‘Six o’clock.’

  ‘Six o’clock in the fucking morning – and on a public holiday I might add.’

  She was a heavy lady and it was already a scorcher of a day. Sweat glistened across the top of boobs that looked in danger of exploding out of an industrial strength bra.

  ‘So it is,’ Baker said, trying to feign interest. He didn’t give a shit about time or public holidays. He cared only about getting the information he needed.

  ‘You Mitzi Stryzglowski?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’

  She opened the door a little wider. Her hair was dark red – the kind of red that comes in a bottle judging by the silver hair glinting at her temples and roots.

  ‘Stan Grady, Department of Child Services.’

  It was an easy lie.

  ‘What’s DoCS want with me? I haven’t worked in the system for years.’

  ‘I’m looking for a girl that lived with you and your husband ten years ago.’

  ‘Me husband’s gone. Pissed off five years back with one of them bitches from the home. Dirty pervert used to like touching them up, and this one decided she liked it.’

  A muscle twitched in Baker’s face. ‘Which girl did he run off with?’

  ‘How is that your business?’

  ‘I demand you tell me her name.’

  Mitzi smiled, too cagey to fall for idle threats. ‘You got any ID?’

  He didn’t, but he had the next best thing.

  He removed his wallet from his back pocket, peeling off a few crisp notes.

  ‘I’ll give you forty bucks.’

  She stared at the money, her eyes too hungry for her own good. ‘What do you wanna know?’

  ‘The girl. What was her name?’

  ‘Fiona. Aboriginal girl. Who knew he liked darkies.’