to ignore it. 'You navigate. I'll drive.'
'Then I'd better get the camera out of mine.'
'Whoa. Walenski's been Mr Invisible for 25 years. If we turn up on his doorstep with a camera he's likely to bolt.'
'You're right, but-' he hesitated.
I felt for Monty, the thought of capturing Walenski on film excited me too. 'Bring it just in case.'
Footscray was a run-down suburb across town. By the looks of things, it had inherited St Kilda's mantle. I counted three under-age prostitutes on one corner. My old Corolla wasn't worth stealing except for a teenager's joyride. I parked it under a street light to deter them. As I stepped out of the car, I was glad Monty was with me.
When I joined him on the footpath he'd turned up the collar of his leather jacket and tucked his hands in his pockets. He looked like he was waiting for a roving fashion photographer. I'd never been able to work out if Monty just naturally fell into these poses or if it was all carefully calculated. After all, he had an excellent eye for framing a scene. At any rate, I made a point of never commenting.
A drunk staggered past us, clutched the light pole and threw up in the gutter.
Monty gave a happy sigh. 'Feels just like home.'
I snorted. Monty and I came from a similar poor-respectable backgrounds. At least he knew who his father was and didn't have a heroin-addicted nutter for a mother. I elbowed him in the ribs. 'Keep your mind on the job. Look for 12B.'
There were no street numbers. We were not far from a dilapidated corner store, where a family business was struggling to compete with the nearest 7-Eleven.
'That's 10.' Monty indicated a little worker's cottage, then nodded to the store. 'So that makes the shop number 12.'
My heart sank. Was Arthur yanking my chain?
'Bet that's your man.' Monty pointed to a shadowy outline at the window of the residence above the shop.
Of course. We dodged the rubbish in the lane between the shop and the cottage, found a set of rickety stairs and climbed to the landing. Passing door A, we went on to B. The top screw had fallen off so that the B hung upside down. I knocked.
A knot of excitement curled in my stomach. I glanced at Monty. He had taken a step back. With the street light behind him his face was in shadow, expression unreadable.
'This could be an actor Arthur has hired to feed us a pack of lies,' Monty said softly.
'Arthur wouldn't do that,' I answered instinctively.
He snorted. 'The man's going into politics, Antsy.'
Damn, I'd always been too trusting, too quick to rush into things. Yet, I couldn't imagine Arthur telling a lie. Once elected, he was sure to shoot himself in the foot first chance he got. Why was he going into politics? 'Why would Arthur set us up?'
'To put us off the track.'
'Of?'
'The real killer.'
But we weren't trying to find who killed Genevieve, we were making a documentary about the band. That raised the question: did Arthur know who killed Genevieve?
I looked up at Monty. His eyes gleamed in the shadows.
Just as I went to speak the entry light came on, glowing through the rippled glass. Someone fumbled with the door, opening it as far as the chain would allow. An old man peered out at us. He had been taller than me but he was bent with age, and the flesh had fallen away from his skin, paring down his features to reveal the prominent nose and high cheekbones of a typical middle European profile. A sickly-sweet medicinal smell clung to his body and his clothes were shiny with ground-in grime. He looked genuine to me, but then he would, wouldn't he?
Arthur, a Machiavellian murderer? Logic told me it was possible but it just didn't gel.
The man claiming to be Joseph Walenski looked me up and down, registering surprise. 'You're the one? You don't look old enough to be a documentary producer.'
'I'm not. Not yet, anyway,' I told him. 'You're Walenski?' He nodded. 'I'm Antonia Carlyle, Arthur Davidson gave me your address. He said-'
'You didn't waste any time.' He cut me short as he closed the door to take off the chain, then opened it again and gestured us into a lounge room. 'Come in.'
When the light fell on Monty's face I saw the old guy react the way everyone did.
'This is just Monty. He's okay,' I said. 'He's my DOP, director of photography.'
Walenski's mouth twitched as if he fought a smile but he only nodded and stepped aside. 'Come in.'
But I didn't want to walk into that flat. The scar on my palm itched and a sick feeling settled in my stomach. The place felt claustrophobic. Stale air washed over me: onions, sausages, chips and something else, something I associated with Pop before he died. My great-grandfather passed on when I was seven yet I suddenly saw him vividly in my mind's eye, a grumpy old man, furious with the indignity of dying by degrees in hospital.
'Come in,' Joe repeated, directing us towards a narrow hall. 'This way.'
Rubbing my palm on my thigh, I stepped over the threshold and went down the hall to the living room.
I could tell the room had been nice once. There was a dusty, but fussily attractive, old-fashioned lampshade casting a pool of light over a comfortable stuffed armchair. A messy coffee table sat in front of the gas heater. Tall bookshelves stood to each side of the mantelpiece, stacked two deep. More books littered every surface. They were even stacked on the floor in wavering waist-high towers.
I had the feeling that Walenski had stopped trying some time ago and had just been going through the motions ever since.
There was only the one big chair and, with the papers and mug on the coffee table, it was obvious Walenski had been occupying it. The old guy pointed through a doorway to the kitchen. 'Bring some chairs.'
Monty snagged two before I could get one for myself. He knew I'd hate it and was just trying to push my buttons. I waited while Monty positioned the two chairs on the far side of the coffee table which stood in front of the heater. This was going full blast and the room was so hot, it was almost stifling. Again, a wave of claustrophobia swept over me. Nausea roiled in my belly. My heart raced and I felt the first rush of a panic attack. Had to get a grip.
I sat down clasping sweaty palms over one knee and looked to Monty but he'd wandered off exploring. Typical. I smiled and felt my heart rate begin to return to normal.
Walenski shuffled over to the armchair. 'I've been sorting through it for you.'
I waited, figuring I'd work out what he was talking about soon enough. Besides, I needed to do my meditation breathing.
The old guy lowered himself into the chair with painful care and began reading. I glanced at Monty who had prowled across the room. He grinned then poked his nose into the little kitchen. I heard him opening and closing cupboard doors. Luckily, Walenski was oblivious. Monty caught my eye as he returned to the living room, giving me a little half nod which I took to mean the place was lived-in. Then he opened the door to a bedroom.
