out. ‘A friend of mine died.’
‘You came close yourself, I hear.’
Frank started to rise, an angry reply bubbling up.
But then Frank felt Milo’s hand on his arm, deflecting the anger and the tension.
‘I think,’ said Milo, ‘that “involved” isn’t the right expression here, guys. “Caught up in” pretty well covers it.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘An old friend of Frank’s got mixed up with the wrong crowd. We got tangled up in it by mistake. We weren’t heroes.’ He crooked a grin down at his partner. ‘Well, maybe Frank was a bit. But mostly we were just lucky. Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.’
Frank took a deep breath in the shelter of Milo’s grab at the limelight. The amazing bastard was charming crocodiles again. How did he do that?
‘In that case, Milo,’ said Carter in clear, all-friends-together voice, ‘is it lucky or unlucky that you know one of the victims of the Botanic Gardens killer?’
Milo’s puzzlement was clear. ‘Do you mean the first guy? What was his name?’
‘Not Denny O’Brien. The victim found this morning. His name has just been released – Colin Mettering. I understand you knew him at university.’
‘I-’ Milo shook his head. An image flashed into his mind’s eye – a young man, blonde, laughing. ‘Shit.’ He felt Frank’s hand on his arm and their eyes met. ‘Look, Mr… what’s your name? Carter?’ Milo looked out into the crowd at him again. ‘I don’t know where you get your information. I knew Colin. Not really well, but we had mutual friends. This is…’ he shook his head, ‘a hell of a way to find out.’ He frowned, sat down, looked helplessly at Frank. ‘Jesus,’ he murmured, his voice breaking, ‘poor Col.’
‘Your reaction, Mr Bertolone?’ Carter persisted.
‘I think you can see his reaction,’ said Frank acidly, curving one arm protectively around Milo.
Milo shook his head again, straightened up, stood to face the crowd. ‘It’s horrible, Mr Carter,’ he said gently. ‘Murder is a horrible thing. You want to know what kind of luck it is that I know Col. That’s not a question in very good taste, Mr Carter. Two people are dead, killed and dumped like they didn’t matter. And they do. I knew Colin Mettering as a friend of a friend ten years ago. He liked Warhol and Jackie Chan. He was a good bloke. I didn’t know him very well, but the people who loved him are grieving, and it’s horrible he’s dead. It’s no kind of luck that I knew him – it’s just sad. And, Mr Carter, if you’re trying to imply anything, I’d like to know what it is.’
All eyes were on Carter, who shrugged. ‘I’m not implying anything, Mr Bertolone.’
‘Thank you.’ Milo sat down.
‘You okay?’ Frank murmured to him.
Milo nodded and turned to Royle. ‘We’ll take a couple more questions if you like, Stefanie.’
Royle quickly recovered her composure, and called for a few more questions.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Milo,’ said a young woman, shooting a sharp glance at Carter. Milo nodded acknowledgment of her sympathy. ‘I was just wondering if you had any comments to make on the nature of these terrible crimes.’
‘I hope they catch the bastard soon.’ Milo nodded to another journalist, a middle-aged man from one of the big newspapers.
‘Is it true that you’re both gay?’
Milo raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. ‘Frank here tends more towards the brooding end of the scale.’
Frank relaxed and laughed, eliciting a grin from Milo in response. ‘Are you asking for a date?’ Frank asked the journalist, leaning forward. ‘I’m busy for the next month or so on tour but, hey, call my publicist. You seem a nice guy.’
Some good-natured laughter greeted this, and the journo’s coy reply that he was ‘busy too’. Royle wrapped up with thanks all round, wished them luck with the album and declared the interview over.
Frank and Milo escaped ahead of her. Selma ushered them rapidly into the lifts, then down to the limousine.
‘Off to St Kilda now, TJ,’ Selma told the driver. Then she flopped back into her seat between the two of them. ‘My god, that was close,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not surprised Carter’s got himself blackballed all over the place.’ At their inquiring looks, she elaborated. ‘Ian Carter has got a Masters in trouble-making. A real activist, always stirring the pot. He’s been arrested at least half as often as he’s been published in the last ten years. After attracting enough libel suits, even the slowest editors finally worked out he was more trouble than the stories are worth. But you!’ She planted a kiss on Milo’s cheek, leaving a bright red smear. ‘You are a natural. A genius. A saviour. They were eating out of the palm of your hand.’ She rubbed the lipstick smear into a line of rouge on Milo’s cheek.
‘And you,’ she planted a kiss only slightly less enthusiastically on Frank’s forehead, ‘were also wonderful. The brooding one. Yes, that’ll work very nicely in the publicity shots. Which were going to be in the Botanic Gardens, but in the light of recent events we’ve rescheduled. Cityscapes, we thought. St Kilda – young, funky, urban-hip.’
‘I don’t feel like having any pictures taken,’ Frank said, trying to see where the driver was heading.
‘Fine,’ Selma said. ‘That’ll help the brooding look.’
‘Just don’t look all sulky instead,’ Milo warned him with a grin.
Frank bristled. ‘I don’t sulk.’ Milo’s sustained mischievous humour disarmed him in the end. ‘All right, I do. A bit. If you take me to one of these famed Acland Street cake shops I promise to brood to your heart’s content.’
‘Ah, my heart is thoroughly contented already.’ Milo kissed Frank on the cheek and sat back in the leather seat. ‘But I wouldn’t say no to a rum baba myself.’
‘You can have it as a reward,’ Selma promised, ‘after the photo shoot.’
Milo sobered suddenly. ‘I should call Gordie.’
‘And he is?’
‘Gordon Robinson. He was a lot closer to Colin than I was, especially in the last few years. I’ve been meaning to catch up.’
Frank tugged his teeny mobile phone out of his jeans pocket. ‘Got the number?’
‘Uhh, yeah, somewhere.’ Milo pulled out his wallet and started to go through a small heap of old bus tickets, movie tickets, receipts and scraps of paper.
‘Hang on.’ Frank fished a slim address book from his back pocket. ‘Here we go.’ He dialled, but the line was engaged.
‘I’ll try later,’ Milo said.
‘Photos first,’ said Selma firmly.
‘Yes ma’am.’ Milo saluted, then grinned.
Chapter
