An Affair With Danger - a noir romance novella Read online

  ‘With regard to sentencing, Your Honour, I ask that you take into account the defendant’s decision to change his plea to guilty, thus averting the cost and time of a trial by jury. And while I’m not at all making light of the effect of the offence on the victims, I’d also ask Your Honour to consider that although violence was threatened, none was actually carried out. I acknowledge his history of recent violence, in the charges of assault and breach of domestic violence order, but it is noted that his previous offence of armed robbery was committed eight years ago and there have been no serious violent offences since then.

  ‘The sentencing range for an offence of this nature ranges from four to eight years, and taking into account the circumstances mentioned, I respectfully request that you consider imposing the minimum penalty of four years, with parole eligibility after serving a third of that sentence, that is 16 months imprisonment. I submit that the defendant’s prospects for rehabilitation are good, especially if subjected to parole supervision upon release; and he has indicated a willingness to attend drug counselling and any other intervention considered necessary as part of his parole.’

  He bowed his head. ‘That is my submission, Your Honour, if I can be of any further assistance…’

  ‘Thank you Mr Levenson. I need further time to consider sentencing, so I’ll adjourn the court until 2 pm.’

  We all filed out, except for Francis, as I now knew her, who brushed past me with an impatient ‘excuse me’ and bolted out the door.

  #

  There were three hours to kill. The day was cold and damp, like walking into a wet sponge. The responsible thing to do would be to find a cafe and work over an early lunch. Plus I had a few missed calls from the office. Francis stood a little way ahead of me on the sidewalk, fumbling in her handbag, a cigarette perched between her lips – neon pink lips that you could see in the dark. I wasn’t going to do the responsible thing.

  She looked up as I approached. ‘Hey mate, have you got a light?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke.’ I scouted the crowds bustling past. ‘But I’ll find you one, if you like.’

  Further down the sidewalk, a middle-aged man in a suit was standing off to the side, puffing on a cigarette while checking his phone. I approached him and asked him for a light.

  ‘It’s not for me, it’s for the lady over there,’ I said, though why I should care if a perfect stranger thought I was a smoker, I had no idea.

  He followed my gaze to where Francis was standing, her auburn hair shining even on this dull day. He handed me his lighter. ‘Tell her she can have it, my compliments,’ he said.

  ‘The gentleman said you could keep it,’ I said, as I handed her the lighter.

  ‘Really? Thanks.’ She lit her cigarette and drew in a deep lungful. ‘I’d given up before this.’ She inclined her head in the direction of the courthouse.

  ‘It must be very stressful for you,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I’m kinda used to it.’

  ‘I’m going to have a coffee. Would you like to come?’

  She gave me a speculative look, then turned her head away to blow out a cloud of smoke. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure? My shout.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure and I’m perfectly capable of buying my own coffee if I wanted one.’

  She drew out her mobile phone from her bag. ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’

  ‘Okay, see you later, Francis.’

  She gave me a sharp look. ‘I hate that name. It’s Frankie.’

  ‘Suits you. See you, Frankie.’

  Chapter 5

  I WAS already back in court, in the same seat, when Frankie walked in. She sat in the row behind me. A deliberate snub. Did she think my asking her for coffee was a pick-up line? It wasn’t meant to be; I’d never been good at chatting up women. I always liked to see if we had anything in common before I started honing in. What was it then, if it wasn’t a pick-up line? It was obvious that Frankie and I would have little, if anything, in common.

  The court resumed and Judge Delaney began her sentencing remarks in her dry, precise voice. She outlined the facts of the case and the information taken into account in her sentence. Gisbourne stood with his gaze fixed upon a spot somewhere above her head.

  I was acutely aware of Frankie’s presence behind me. What must it be like, sitting in a courtroom watching your partner being sentenced to prison and knowing he’d be locked away for who knows how long? Long, lonely days and nights. The nights would be the worst. It was her own fault, anyway. What was the saying? If you run with wolves you’ll learn how to howl.

  The judge paused to give Gisbourne a long look, and I knew then that she hadn’t been swayed by Levenson’s arguments. ‘Unfortunately, armed robbery is becoming more common with the rise in use of methamphetamines, with serious consequences for the victims and the community at large. It is to be hoped, Mr Gisbourne, that you take Mr Levenson’s advice and think about your future while you’re in custody. In respect of the offence of armed robbery, you’re sentenced to six years imprisonment, with a non-parole period of two years. In respect of the offence of stealing a motor vehicle, I sentence you to three months imprisonment, to be served concurrently. I also take into account your pre-sentence custody of thirteen months, one week and three days.’

  Gisbourne’s demeanour was of a man who knew he was beaten, but he was damned if he was going to show it. The sentence wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. With the pre-sentence custody discount and if he were granted parole after two years, he’d serve less than 12 months behind bars.

  ‘Anything further, Mr Coleby? Mr Levenson?’ the judge asked.

  ‘No, Your Honour,’ they both said.

  Gisbourne mouthed a defiant ‘love you’ in Frankie’s direction before the police officers led him out of the dock. I restrained myself from looking around to see her reaction. The court was dismissed and she strode out of the courtroom ahead of me.

  Outside it was just starting to drizzle. Drizzle that meant business. Pedestrians quickened their pace, umbrellas snapped up. Frankie was almost out of view.

  ‘Frankie!’ I shouted. She stopped, looked around and watched me dodging people and umbrellas as I sprinted towards her.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  One tear was running down her cheek and she swiped at it.

  ‘I just wanted to say...’ What did I want to say? I pulled out my wallet and took out a business card.

  ‘Here’s my card. If you need help with ... I dunno, anything, just call me.’

  She took the card. ‘A fucking lawyer. I should have known. And why the hell do you think I’d need an insolvency lawyer?’

  ‘I take on other cases as well. That’s just my specialty.’

  Her look could have cut glass. ‘If you’re thinking you’ll get a bit of action because my boyfriend’s in prison, you can fuck off.’

  ‘Hey, it’s not...’

  ‘Or is this some weird revenge fantasy because he held you up?’

  ‘Neither. I have no ulterior motives. If you don’t want to take my card, that’s fine.’

  ‘I’ve never met a man without ulterior motives.’

  But she pocketed my card and strode off. I watched her as she disappeared into the crowd. It was only then that I realised the drizzle had become a downpour and I was getting drenched.

  Chapter 6

  AT THE Three Monkeys, I played my heart out and the crowd responded, cheering and whistling. I played all the popular covers from the Rolling Stones to the Black Keys and soon the dance floor was packed.

  During my break, I got my mineral water from Joe and joined Sarah at a corner table.

  ‘You’re on fire tonight,’ she smiled.

  ‘I think it’s the relief from the court case being over. And not having to give evidence.’

  ‘I’m glad for your sake it’s over. How’s your album coming along?’

  ‘It’s not.’ I’d mentally kicked myself many times for telling Joe
and Sarah about my album. Every time they asked me about it, it reminded me that I’d made zilch progress over the last 12 months. I’d lost the momentum on my songwriting and couldn’t motivate myself to get back into it.

  ‘I’ve got writer’s block,’ I said. It was as good an excuse as any.

  ‘I’ve got a friend who’s a writer and she says writers’ block is really fear in disguise.’ She put her hand on mine. ‘I think you should keep at it. I really like your songs.’

  I was uncomfortable with the hand bit. We’d had the occasional after-gig drink, and Sarah had thrown out a few hints about us going out on a date. I told her as tactfully as I could that I liked her as a friend but nothing more. And it was true. She was hurt at first and things were uncomfortable between us for a while, but it blew over and we were back to being friends again.

  But every now and then, she would initiate some physical contact, perhaps testing the waters to see if I’d changed my mind. If I were like some of my mates, I would have taken up her invitation for the sake of regular sex, but I didn’t want to take advantage of her. Particularly as she did all the hiring and firing of staff for the hotel, so technically she was my boss. Screwing the boss is never a good thing.

  ‘Thanks.’ I stood up. ‘I guess I’d better get back to it. My fans are screaming for me.’

  #

  My lungs were bursting and my legs were screaming ‘Stop!’ I forced myself to keep going, pounding away my tiredness on the treadmill at the gym. I hadn’t slept well since the sentencing two weeks ago, waking up exhausted after vivid dreams that disappeared from my memory as soon as I opened my eyes. During the day, images of Frankie haunted me – her hair, her eyes, her smoky-jazz-club voice, her feistiness. I wanted to know more about her, her life and how she came to be the girlfriend of an armed robber. The frustrating thing was I had no idea why I had this obsession.

  After eventually giving in to my legs, I showered at the gym and drove home, picking up a take-away curry on the way. My surge of energy from the jogging quickly dissipated under the influence of a couple of beers and the Massaman curry. I turned on the TV, sank into my couch and tried to work out in a logical, rational way what attracted me to Frankie. But there was nothing I could put into words.

  The evidence against my seeing her again was overwhelming. She was in a relationship with a criminal, she and I were planets apart in every respect, and we’d have nothing in common. And she already thought I was a jerk. What was the evidence in favour? None. She had my business card, but the chances of her contacting me were practically non-existent. Did I want to sleep with her? Hell, yeah. That was the weirdest part. She was so unlike any woman I’d ever been attracted to before. When I weighed it all up, I decided it was lust, pure and simple. It had been a while since I’d got my rocks off.

  I got up and retrieved my iPad from my briefcase. If I researched her on the internet and found out as much about her as I could, it would satisfy my curiosity and I could stop thinking about her. I started with Facebook. There were plenty of people called Francis Slater, but the only one that fitted had a one-line entry – ‘Lives in Sydney, Australia’ – with no photo. When I clicked on the link, a message popped up saying that her profile was only visible to people she knew. That made sense – the police checked Facebook, it was one of their main sources of information, and if your partner was a criminal, you’d hardly want the police sniffing around your Facebook pages. I declined Facebook’s invitation to send her a friend request. I had an inkling it wouldn’t be well received.

  I then googled Francis Slater and came up with Dr Francis Slater from Cambridge University chairing an economics conference, Francis Slater, a devout elder of the Springfield Uniting Church who was sorely missed after her untimely death and Francis Slater the would-be American Idol, caterwauling her rendition of ‘I Will Always Love You’ on YouTube.

  Google also informed me that there were eight Francis Slaters on LinkedIn. As this was a social media network for business people, I doubted she’d be there; but I checked each profile just in case. I couldn’t find any newspaper or TV reports about her and I even searched Pinterest, because of its high proportion of female users. Nothing.

  What now? It would be easy enough to find out where she lived. The court and the prison would both have her address listed as Gisbourne’s next of kin. I had a mate, Jerry, who was a criminal lawyer – it would be easy enough to get that information through him. But that was unethical. Not to mention getting into creepy, stalker territory.

  Forget her. She’s trouble with a capital T.

  Chapter 7

  ‘I’M SORRY, Mrs McNamara, but I can’t help you regarding your husband’s alleged offshore accounts. You’ll need to see a forensic accountant...’

  Mrs McNamara was too wound up to listen. I held the phone away from my ear as she continued her rant about my client, her rotten-to-the-core ex-husband who, according to her, was claiming bankruptcy to avoid paying his share of their property settlement, when she knew for a fact that he had millions stashed away in an overseas account.

  ‘I really have to go, Mrs McNamara, I have a client waiting. Take my advice and hire an accountant.’

  I hung up and hardly had time to breathe a sigh of relief when my mobile phone rang. Unknown number.

  ‘Hi, it’s Frankie.’

  I sat motionless with shock. My heart skipped a couple of beats. ‘Hi, how are you?’

  ‘Okay.’ A pause. ‘You told me I could call you if I needed help.’

  ‘Absolutely. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d prefer to talk in person. Have you got time today?’

  I checked my diary. I was just about to go to an in-house seminar on bankruptcy law changes, and I had meetings with clients for the rest of the day.

  ‘Sure. Do you want to meet for coffee somewhere?’

  ‘I haven’t got time. I’m at work, at the Ocean Waves Resort at Bondi. I get half an hour for lunch at 12. Can you meet me in the foyer?’’

  ‘No worries, I’ll be there.’

  I knocked on the office door of my boss, Louis, the partner in charge of the insolvency team. He worked hard and played hard and expected his team to do the same.

  ‘I’ve got a killer migraine. I need to go home and lie down in a dark room.’

  Louis gave me a searching look. ‘Stress not getting to you, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s just appeared out of nowhere.’ I swallowed my guilt. ‘Sorry about the seminar. I’ll get the info later and I’ll ask Chloe to reschedule this afternoon’s appointments.’

  #

  I took my briefcase with me, not sure if this was a professional or personal matter. It was a 30-minute drive from my office in Surry Hills to Bondi and I arrived there half an hour early. I had a coffee at one of the beachfront cafes then drove to the Ocean Waves Resort. It was a red brick three-storey building one block back from the beach, obviously well past its prime. Beach towels hung over peeling balcony railings. A battered campervan straddled the two guest carpark spaces.

  I parked on the street and entered the foyer at two minutes to twelve. An odour of grease and wet towels hung in the air. The reception desk was unattended. A woman grasping the hand of a screaming toddler waited by the lift. The door slid open and Frankie bowled out. The woman hauled the child in and its screams echoed inside the lift as the door closed and the lift creaked on its way.

  ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ Frankie said. She wore a tabard over her jeans inscribed with the words ‘Mrs Magic Cleaning’, her neon pink handbag slung over her shoulder. Somehow she’d managed to tame her hair into a bundle under a cap, from which strands hung down and curled around her face. She was the only woman I’d met who could look stunning in cleaning attire.

  ‘That’s okay. I didn’t have much on. Do you want to go and grab a sandwich?’

  ‘Thanks but I don’t have time. There’s a seat out the back.’

  I followed her through a door at the back of the foye
r, which led into a small garden courtyard with a couple of bench seats. Another girl in jeans and tabard got up and left, texting on her phone as she went. We sat down in the warm sun and Frankie lit a cigarette. I instinctively leaned away. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke and one of my non-negotiable criteria for dates was that they had to be a non-smoker. I’d never even kissed a smoker, let alone gone to bed with one.

  ‘Sorry,’ Frankie said, moving her cigarette away from me. ‘I’ve been meaning to give up but it hasn’t happened yet.’

  She crossed her legs, her foot jiggling madly. Her nerviness was palpable. I longed to touch her arm to reassure her.

  ‘You seem a bit on edge,’ I said.

  ‘I’m fine. The reason I wanted to see you was to ask you if you could help me find my brother.’

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

  ‘What’s the story? Is he a missing person?’

  She dug into her jeans pocket, pulled out a small wallet and from it produced a crumpled photo. It was of a boy and a girl aged, I guessed, around seven and five. The boy was sitting in the girl’s lap, her arms around him. The girl’s brown, auburn-tinged hair sprouted from the side of her head in two pigtails and the boy’s hair was pure snow-blonde. His cheeky grin suffused his entire face, tilted slightly upwards as if acknowledging the protective presence of the girl behind him. The girl was smiling but there was a sadness and resignation in her eyes that I’d rarely, if ever, seen in such a young face.