‘He was too old and too serious for her anyway,’ Mrs Williams broke into Stevie’s thoughts. Stevie couldn’t have agreed more. But she also knew from the errors of her own past, that sexual attraction alone rarely followed conventions and good sense.
Stevie pointed out to Irene Williams the office on the other side of the incident room, planning on leaving Barry to introduce her to Angus. Her timing couldn’t have been worse; the door opened just as she was about to beat her retreat. Several officers looked up from their phones and computers when Angus barked, ‘Stevie, a word.’
‘This is Emily Williams’s mother, Irene,’ Stevie said hurriedly, smiling at the woman. ‘She’d like to talk to you about her daughter. I’m afraid I’ve got to rush, Irene, my partner’s in hospital...’
‘I’m sure Mrs Williams won’t mind waiting for just a minute,’ Angus said. ‘Barry, look after Mrs Williams please, put the kettle on. Excuse me for a moment, ma’am. Stevie, come in.’
He closed the office door behind them. The office was on the fifth floor of the Central Police building, with views across the WACA and the Swan River. Not that Stevie was paying much attention to the view outside the window. Her gaze flitted about the room. It already looked and smelled different from when Monty had been using it: no overflowing bin surrounded by misfired balls of screwed up paper, no dry-cleaning on the back of the door, no clandestine cigarette smoke leaking from the small attached bathroom. The photo of her on the desk was gone too, that was a relief; she’d always hated that picture. Her hair had been especially unmanageable that day, as if she’d just been pulled backwards through the Terrace wind tunnel—which she doubtless had. She wondered where Angus had put it. At the bottom of a drawer along with Monty’s name plaque, probably. She noticed that the clay dinosaur Izzy had made for Monty was still on the desk, holding down a stack of papers.
Angus ground at the loose change in his pockets. ‘Stevie, what the hell have you been playing at?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That innocent look won’t wash with me. You’re messing around where you don’t belong. Haven’t you got better things to do than gatecrashing a team meeting? Shouldn’t you be with Monty and your daughter? Surely a child needs her mother at a time like this.’
How dare he. She felt a rush of anger, clamped her jaw and said nothing.
‘If it wasn’t for the incident in Freo last night I might not have realised you were playing such an active part in the investigation,’ he went on. ‘Some peripheral interest is understandable—you found the baby after all—but actually participating in witness interviews is out of the question. I won’t allow it. It’s paramount the case is only run through official channels. There’s the insurance for a start; you could have been hurt last—’
She interrupted him. ‘Izzy’s at school and Monty tends to sleep at this time of day. I’m taking her in to see him later after school, which will be out soon. So unless you need me for anything else, I’d better get going.’
‘I’m serious, Stevie. This is your last warning. I know Veitch has already had a word with you.’
Stevie made a move toward the dinosaur paperweight, but stopped herself. Taking it would be childish; besides, its presence here on the desk meant that Monty was still coming back. ‘I’ll send your regards to Mont,’ she said as she turned on her heel and left the office. (Image 18.1)
Image 18.1
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was closer to lunch than breakfast, but everyone in the establishment slept late. The girls wiped sleep from their eyes as they sat around the table devouring rice cakes and coconut milk, baked bananas and sweet fish curry left over from the night before. The packets of sugary western cereal standing on the table remained untouched. They were well fed—the assurance of good food was about the only promise of Jon Pavel’s that had come true.
Excitement crackled like static through the kitchen. The girls were going to Broome to work as hostesses at the resort where they would make more money than they had ever seen in Perth. Soon they would all be rich, pay their debts and return to their villages as celebrities. That might happen, there was always a chance, Mai thought as she silently shuffled around the table, ladling rice from a large aluminium pot to those who wanted it. She didn’t express her doubts about the venture, didn’t want to dampen their spirits. At twenty-three she was the oldest by several years, but sometimes it felt like decades.
She’d worked the high end of the market before, the favourite of a wealthy Chinese Catholic, and had enjoyed special favours for a while. When the Chinaman discovered her pregnancy, he’d paid her old Mamasan a small fortune to skip the customary abortion, telling her in the same breath that he wanted no more to do with her. High end like Broome, low end like here, there was little difference.
Unless you owned the business.
Lin refused Mai’s offer of rice; she hadn’t touched her breakfast, Mai noticed. The girl continuously rubbed at her stomach and seemed to be having trouble drawing her breath. Rick was a clever one; he knew just how much beating a girl could take, where to punch for maximum pain and minimum damage, often hitting them through a thin foam mattress so the skin wouldn’t bruise. Mai could see he’d gone too far this time. He was encouraged to beat the girls for bad behaviour, but she knew the Mamasan wouldn’t have wanted Lin to be hit that hard.
Seventeen-year-old Nien peeped around the cereal boxes and met Mai with worried eyes. With a tilt of her head she indicated Lin sitting next to her.
‘Does the Mamasan know what happened?’ Nien whispered through her hand. If Lin heard what she said, she gave no sign of it; she just continued to stare blankly into her untouched bowl of fish curry. The other girls at the table were giggling, speculating on what kind of men they would meet in Broome. They weren’t interested in the serious conversation at the other end of the table. Just as well, Mai thought, the fewer who knew the truth behind Lin’s injuries the better.
Without waiting for an answer, Nien went on. ‘She can’t work now; even the drunken farang might notice her injuries. No one will want to lie with a girl with broken bones. This will cost the Mamasan money.’
‘I can’t take her to the doctor; there isn’t time,’ Mai said. ‘I’ve bound her ribs; that will have to do, but I think some might be cracked or broken.’
‘Why can’t you get Mamasan to take her to the doctor then? She listens to you. Isn’t the doctor being friendly any more?’
They all received regular check-ups from a deregistered doctor who Mamasan exploited like she did everyone else. He was a drug addict and she got him what he needed. In return he never asked any questions other than those that were strictly necessary.
‘It’s not a question of who takes her, there isn’t time; I told you that,’ Mai said.
‘But what will you do—will you tell the Mamasan what Rick has done?’
Nien’s questions were irritating but justified. Mai took a sip of Coke and thought hard. Rick had been walking a fine line recently. He’d been taking more uppers than usual and they were scrambling his brains; he was sure to fall out of favour with the Mamasan sooner or later. But if he didn’t destroy himself with drugs, Mai thought, running her finger around the sharp hole in the top of the can, this extra piece of information might.
‘If Mamasan asks, I’ll say a client beat Lin up. It’s not worth getting on the wrong side of Rick.’ Yet, Mai added silently.