‘How do you mean?’
‘She used to wear the head rag for the punters.’
‘Muslim men?’
‘And others. You’d be surprised at what turns blokes on.’ She gave me the smile again. ‘Or maybe you wouldn’t. So she didn’t sell you the information?’
‘No.’
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know. I hoped it was how to find Miranda.’
She felt in her bag for her cigarettes.
‘I thought you said you only had three,’ I said.
‘I need to think. Order some more coffee.’
A few other people had taken their places at the tables and the waitress was in and out of the cafe. I ordered two more long blacks. Isabella lit up and waited for the coffee. It came and she did the thing with the sweetener.
‘How much trouble is Miranda in?’
Much the same question Ruby asked. Solidarity. I shrugged. ‘Nothing at all from me, a bit from the police, some from people she’s got involved with. All I want is answers to a few questions.’
‘And you’ll pay for the answers?’ She glanced at the card. ‘Cliff?’
I drank some coffee but I’d let it cool too much. I pushed the cup away. ‘Yes.’
‘Will you pay me to tell you where Miranda is, or where she might be?’
I nodded.
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘A grand.’
‘Split the difference-seven fifty.’
‘I can get that for one trick.’
I looked closely at her. There was a suggestion of a double chin and the lines around her eyes were spreading. ‘Not anymore,’ I said.
She dropped her butt in the dregs of the coffee. ‘You’re right, but you’re a shit to say so. Okay, seven fifty. Let’s see it first.’
I took the notes from my wallet. Seven hundreds, one fifty. She hesitated.
‘Her name’s not really Miranda.’
‘I know, it’s Mary Oberon.’
‘Fuck, I was hoping for the other two fifty. In fact it’s Oberoi. She figured Oberon was classier. She’s got a brother named Ramesh. He runs a restaurant up on the central coast. She used to talk about working there. How she liked it. I mean working in the restaurant.’
‘Indian restaurant?’
‘What do you reckon?’
‘Where on the central coast?’
‘Fucking stupid name for a place-Woy Woy.’
I handed her the money.
‘Say hello for me,’ she said.
There were several Indian restaurants in Woy Woy and one of them was named Ramesh’s. At one time I had a girlfriend who lived near Newcastle and I spent a bit of time up there with her. But I wouldn’t have detoured to visit the central coast for many years. I surfed up there when I was younger. In those days we used to drive up in old cars with our boards on the roof and an esky full of beer. This time I decided to take the train. Get around by taxi. Hope Isabella’s tip was right. Stay overnight.
I packed a bag and caught a train to Wyong from Central Station. I settled down with C.J. Sansom’s Heartstone . I’d been working my way through his Tudor series. Good reads, although this one was a bit slow-padded, as a lot of novels are now. I don’t know why. I looked out the window from time to time but basically let the kilometres take care of themselves. No food or drink on City Rail trains. I had a flask of scotch in my bag in case of delays and emergencies.
The train was held up for almost an hour just out of Berowra. Signals malfunction they called it, which is not what you want to hear. It was late afternoon by the time the train got to Woy Woy. A taxi took me to a motel in the centre of town. I’d printed out a town map from the web. Ramesh’s North Indian restaurant was only a block away. I consulted the phone directory but there was no Oberoi listed residentially, so it had to be the restaurant. Well, nothing wrong with a good rogan josh after a train trip. I rang the restaurant and booked for one at seven thirty.
I took a walk around the town centre to get the stiffness out of my legs and back. Woy Woy is a sort of generic Australian coastal town; could be Nowra, could be Ulladulla, could be Coffs Harbour. There was the usual run of shops with a Coles and a Woolworths and the inevitable McDonald’s and KFC. All I knew about the town was that it had once been a fishing village and Spike Milligan’s parents had lived there and Spike spent a bit of time there himself. There were worse places to be and I was willing to bet that anything with a view of the water would be pricey.
I walked past the restaurant, saw it was both licensed and BYO. I bought a bottle of Eaglehawk chardonnay at a bottle shop. Ramesh’s was an upmarket place with muted lighting and gleaming white tablecloths. The Indian decor had been kept low-key and tasteful. It was more than half full even at that comparatively early hour.
The customers were being shown to their seats by a plump woman in a sari. When it was my turn she looked around the room and made a gesture of despair.
‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. You will have to wait a few minutes for your table. Please sit at the bar and have a drink on the house. My apologies.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘Seating one can be awkward.’
‘Not usually, but there is a big concert on tonight and people are eating early. I’ll put your wine on the ice.’
She escorted me to the bar, spoke briefly to the barman and drifted away. I ordered a gin and tonic and looked around the room. It was the kind of place Lily Truscott and I used to like-medium expensive, good service and, I assumed, no sitar music. Eating alone was one of the things that triggered memories of Lily, who’d been murdered three years before. I sipped the drink and recalled Ray Frost’s question , Did you get even? I’d got even with Lily’s killer but it hadn’t helped. I still missed her.
There was a mirror behind the bar and I saw my face set in a kind of angry scowl. I drank some more gin and tried to change the expression.
‘Your table is ready, sir.’
The woman smiling at me wore a blue and silver sari. She smelled of something fragrant and her voice was musical. The sari, the jewel in her nose, the filigree headband and the spot of red on her forehead made a difference, but it was still Mary Oberon.
13
She showed me to a table in the corner, one of a set of tables for two slightly screened off from the body of the restaurant to allow intimacy. She smiled and walked away. A waiter arrived with a menu and we went through the ritual. I ordered the meal and he brought the wine in an ice bucket. The room was pleasantly warm and I took off my jacket. The entree samosas with the dips were tasty, the papadums were crisp and the meat dish was hot without being fiery. A couple of different chutneys and jasmine rice. It was served smoothly and efficiently and when I indicated I’d pour my own wine the waiter left me to it.
I watched Mary Oberon as she glided around the room. She took people to their tables and performed small functions to help the waiters and the cashier. She appeared to enjoy the work and to be good at it. But there was something a little off-centre about her behaviour-as if she were acting the part rather than being completely at home in it. The soft light flattered her and she appeared younger than in the posed picture Bobby had shown me. Younger, exotic and something else-wary?
Within an hour people began to drift off, presumably to the concert, so that Mary Oberon and the waiters became less busy. I ate slowly, hoping still more people would leave so that I might be able to attract and hold her attention for a while. I had two glasses of wine and poured a third. A waiter came over and asked me if I wanted dessert.
‘No, thanks. Just a long black coffee. And could you ask Mary to come and have a word with me, please.’
He looked surprised but he went to where she was standing and spoke to her. She came over, still smiling but even more wary-looking.