Tropic of Death (29 page)

The nuptials were being conducted by a celebrity priest in front of several hundred guests. Both the bride and groom wore shades of white - Cara Grayle a picture of fragile beauty in an ivory gown, Barrano looking deceptively refined in a cream tuxedo.

The theme continued around the courtyard with white ribbons, ornamental wedding bells and vases of Madonna lilies.

A reading from St Paul’s epistle on love was delivered with passion by an actor from a TV soap and, during the signing of the wedding register, a pop diva performed an aria by Puccini, provoking a burst of spontaneous applause. A pair of cameramen filmed the proceedings from different angles, while the magazine shots were taken by Lola’s lover, American photographer Morgan Lee. She wasn’t quite what Rita had expected. Wearing a pale linen suit, she was slim with a taut, sculpted face, strong cheekbones and cropped hair. Not masculine in her appearance, but not feminine either. She worked at a brisk, no-nonsense pace.

The wedding guests were a glitzy mix. Women with plunging necklines, exposed midriffs and bare thighs were there in force, mostly in the company of hard-faced men with open shirts and gold chains. Billy Bowers was among them, along with a couple of dozen recognisable heavies from the Melbourne underworld. But Rita didn’t recognise the young woman standing with Billy. She was petite with black hair, dark eyes, a pouting face and stunning figure. Maybe she was a model, like the bride and bridesmaids.

As well as guests from the fashion industry, there was a sprinkling of personalities from sport and showbiz.

At the end of the ceremony, the newly married couple walked from the courtyard under a hail of white rose petals to be whisked away in a Rolls-Royce convertible for sunset photos on the beach.

Their guests were ushered to the back of the villa where a huge marquee had been erected. Two gold cupids, wings fluttering, held a pair of entwined hearts at the top of a bridal arch at the entrance.

The marquee was about the size of a circus tent, extending beyond the reception tables, dance floor and stage to include the villa’s cascade of pools and poolside decking. The motif here was different from that in the courtyard. Ivy-clad Roman columns, gold satyrs and statues of naked nymphs were dispersed around the interior, where champagne was being served by club hostesses clad in flimsy togas.

Rita was still taking it in when Lola appeared beside her in a figure-hugging dress, face flushed and two flutes of Bollinger in her hands.

‘This is where the fun begins,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Rita, accepting a glass. ‘And I can see where it’s leading.’

‘I told you - a wild night is guaranteed. Cheers!’

‘Here’s to wedded bliss! And after the Christian vows: a pagan reception.’ Rita raised her glass and drank. ‘It looks like Barrano’s borrowed the props from one of his pole-dancing clubs.’

‘And I know which one: Satyricon.’

‘Lola! Don’t tell me you’re a patron.’

‘Of course not! I was there for the magazine - a fashion week party. Designer swimwear and expensive booze.’

Champagne flowed freely, night fell quickly and Roman torches were lit, casting a primitive glow around the marquee as the guests were shown to their tables. Lola’s was on the fringe of the celebration. It suited Rita, allowing her to watch Bowers from a distance without being observed.

‘Exactly which crooks are you clocking?’ Lola asked as they sat down.

‘Better for you not to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s police business.’

‘And you don’t trust me to be discreet.’

‘You’re about as discreet as a megaphone but that’s not the point. If, by chance, things get ugly, you can plead ignorance.’

‘Ah, good point. Mustn’t spoil my night of abandon.’

‘Abandon? Isn’t your girlfriend joining us?’

‘Morgan hates this sort of thing,’ said Lola. ‘In her own way she’s a puritan. Anyway, she’ll be busy processing the wedding pics then it’s an early night for her. She’s got to be up at dawn for the shoot on Whitehaven.’

By the time the bride and groom made their entrance and settled at the top table, the mood was becoming raucous. People were already drunk, sensing an unruly night ahead. The customary restraints of a wedding reception didn’t seem to apply.

‘What do you make of Barrano?’ asked Rita.

‘For a club owner, more polished than you’d expect.’

‘And his bride?’

‘Not in the supermodel league, but smart enough to hook a man who can give her anything she wants.’

‘Which is?’

‘She wants to be a movie star, darling.’

‘And who’s the little stunner with Billy Bowers? Another model?’

‘A
wannabe
model,’ corrected Lola. ‘Maria Monotti - Sicilian firebrand. A handful even for a heavyweight boxer.’

‘Well, well - a girl from the Monotti family.’

‘Yes, the fruit and vegetable wholesalers.’

‘And wholesale drug suppliers.’

The formalities came and went, the wedding feast lubricated with vintage wine and the family speeches fuelled by high-octane grappa. After that, music was provided by a ten-piece Latin band. While some people danced, others changed into swimming costumes and took to the pools, the raw flames of the torches reflected in the water as they splashed around. The party was getting lively.

Rita had switched to iced water to stay clear-headed while she did some snooping around.

‘Time for me to start circulating,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ said Lola. ‘And I’ve spotted my hunk for the night.

His name’s Lachlan and he’s a model.’

‘A male model?’

‘Don’t think in stereotypes - he’s straight. I’ve got it on good authority he’s got balls on his balls. I’m going to offer him a picture spread.’

‘What does he have to spread to get it?’

‘I’ll let you know. Catch up later.’

Lola surged off among the tables, guests and statuary, her quarry in her sights. Rita watched her go then got up and moved closer to Billy’s table, keeping in the background. When Billy’s girlfriend left the marquee with another woman, Rita followed them. The pair headed into the villa, past the tinkling water of an indoor fountain and across the courtyard. The site of the wedding ceremony had been cleared of rose petals and the seating packed away. Catering staff moved back and forth. At the far end a man in a black suit stood smoking. Beside the fountain were two signs pointing right and left - one for men, one for women.

Maria Monotti and her friend followed the arrow to the left. It led to a palatial bathroom. About a dozen women were already there, chatting distractedly, applying cosmetics, dabbing at their noses. Rita joined them, pretending to busy herself with lipstick while she took in the scene.

It served as a powder room in more ways than one. There were baroque-style chandeliers, gold taps, gold soap dishes, white marble tubs and large mirrors with ornate gold-leaf frames. But the room was also furnished with something much more customised - a self-service trolley, laid out with small silver spoons and a silver platter heaped with cocaine. The drug was on offer like a complimentary treat, to be sampled by whoever wanted it. To Rita the display was blatant, but not to the other women in the room.

They treated it as commonplace, helping themselves as casually as if they were having after-dinner mints.

Rita made a point of taking no notice, appearing to concentrate on the mirror while tuning in to Billy’s girlfriend’s conversation.

‘I need more concealer,’ said Maria.

‘Does it hurt?’ asked her friend.

‘Aches a bit. And they’re still swollen.’

‘Not much of a present to bring to a wedding.’

Maria shook her head as she peered at her reflection. ‘If he hits me like that again I’ll stick a knife in his ribs.’

Rita glanced sideways and saw that Maria Monotti was sporting two black eyes. She was using make-up to hide the bruising.

‘It was the bloody stag night on the boat,’ said the friend.

‘They all went troppo.’

‘No, it’s something else. He’s in a shit mood. Says he’s under stress.’

‘Are you going back to Whitley with him?’

‘No fucking way. I’m staying here.’

When they were finished with the cosmetics they went to the trolley, snorted cocaine and checked their noses in the mirror.

‘That helps,’ said Maria. ‘At least Billy’s good for one thing.’

As they walked off, Rita considered what she’d just heard. The implication was that Bowers had supplied the party cocaine. She put away her lipstick, left the bathroom and crossed the courtyard, sidling up to the men’s room on the other side. It too had a steady stream of visitors. Through the open doorway she could see male guests bending over another trolley. More white powder on offer.

It was obvious she had to call it in.

Rita walked from the courtyard and stood beside the fountain, got out her mobile and called the two uniformed officers posted at the villa gates. She alerted them to the presence of the drug and told them to stand by, saying she’d call back in half an hour after she’d checked out the rest of the villa.

This time she took a side entrance off the terrace. It led through a sunroom and past a kitchen, busy with caterers cleaning up, and along a wide hallway with a lounge and games room off to either side. More of Barrano’s men in suits were brandishing cues around a pool table. Another stood, arms folded, outside the closed door of a corner room, presumably Barrano’s private study. Rita smiled at the bodyguard as she breezed past. He didn’t smile back.

The sound of voices came from rooms above, so she climbed the curving sweep of stairs as if to join them. Bedrooms with ensuites led off the landing, some with doors closed and noises within, interspersed with laughter. Further along, a balcony with a balustrade overlooked the courtyard. On the other side of the villa were more bedrooms. Rita went back down to the ground floor and out to the terrace from where she phoned Sutcliffe.

‘There’s so much coke here,’ she told him, ‘it’s like the snow season on Mount Buller.’

‘How much?’ asked Sutcliffe.

‘A couple of kilos at least.’

‘Anyone dealing?’

‘No, it’s a free treat for wedding guests - on party platters in the bathrooms.’

Sutcliffe chuckled. ‘Brazen bastards.’

‘It’s disappearing rapidly up noses,’ said Rita. ‘You want me to do something about it?’

‘A drug bust on Barrano’s villa?’

‘I’ve alerted the officers at the gates. But, of course, it’s your call.’

‘I gotta say, Van Hassel, you’re my type of woman. But no. It would need more than you and a couple of island uniforms to stage a raid. They’re emergency backup, that’s all.’

‘I’ve spotted a few famous names indulging.’

‘There’s that too. It would backfire, believe me. Besides, that’s not why you’re there. Have you got anything on Bowers?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘The coke - I think Billy supplied it. Something I overheard his girlfriend saying. She’s a member of the Monotti family.’

‘If he’s their Whitley connection it could explain where his money comes from. See if you can firm it up. Call me if you get anything. Doesn’t matter how late.’

‘Okay. I’ll get back to the celebrations.’

When Rita got back to the marquee she found the partying had intensified, becoming unrestrained if not delirious. The drink and drugs were playing their part, but the mood was also being manipulated. The toga girls serving the drinks were now topless.

And the interior was dimmer. The lighting still came from torch flames, but some had been extinguished, making everything shadowy. And the music was louder, pumped up by amplifiers, drowning the wild shrieks of the revellers.

The band was still playing but not many people were on the dance floor and only a few remained at the tables. Most had gravitated to the series of swimming pools and levels of decking.

Those in swimwear were now in the minority. A greater number, who’d come unprepared, had stripped off and taken the plunge in their underwear, with predictable results. Briefs, bras and knickers had gone adrift. Couples cavorted naked in the water. Others strolled poolside wearing nothing but their smiles, while those who were still fully dressed drank and watched avidly.

The bride, looking a little worse for wear in her wedding dress, sat on the edge of a jacuzzi, dangling her bare feet in the foaming water, champagne glass in hand, chatting to admirers.

Barrano was nowhere to be seen, but if his aim had been to create the conditions for an orgy, he’d succeeded. The momentum was already there and it was just a matter of time. The scene had the dangerous elements of cases Rita had worked on in Sex Crimes - a combination of violent men, exploitable women and an intoxicated lack of control. Rita was convinced Lola was somewhere in the thick of it, though she couldn’t spot her among the movement of bodies and heaving shadows. Nor could she see Bowers.

With a growing sense of unease, she left the marquee and climbed the steps up to the villa. But as she crossed the terrace she was confronted by three men. She stopped abruptly. Standing over her was Billy Bowers, flanked by two of Barrano’s suited heavies.

‘You are so fucked, Van Hassel,’ said Bowers. ‘I’m actually going to enjoy this. Vic will take you apart. Then I’ll have my turn.’

‘Get over it, Billy. You don’t scare me,’ she said.

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘You’re just an amateur psycho. I’ve dealt with professionals.’

He gave a low laugh as the bodyguards took her elbows, guiding her forcefully into the villa and down the hallway to the corner room. They propelled her inside, closed the door and stood behind her. Just as she’d guessed, it was a private study - padded leather chairs, a bookcase lined with business journals and, on the walls, framed photos of Ferrari Formula One drivers in the company of Vic Barrano. The room was dominated by a polished mahogany desk.

Standing behind it was the man himself, arms akimbo, eyeing her with a deadpan expression. His tuxedo jacket hung from the back of a chair, but otherwise he was still in his cream wedding outfit.

‘I didn’t invite the police,’ he said quietly. ‘So what are you doing here?’